


Caught In The Rip

by Corby (corbyinoz)



Series: Tumble Turn Series [2]
Category: Thunderbirds
Genre: Angst and Humor, Brotherly Love, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-12
Packaged: 2018-07-20 00:46:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 31,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7384291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corbyinoz/pseuds/Corby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the hydrofoil crash, Virgil stays beside Gordon as his brother attempts complete healing with a new and dangerous medical technique. Virgil finds himself hoping that another sort of healing, one between his brother and his father, will take place, too. But as time goes on and the pain grows worse, any kind of wholeness looks further and further away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1: Handover

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s note:  
> This is the second part of Tumble Turn. Both stories can stand alone in most aspects, but to understand this one fully I would recommend reading the first. If you don’t feel so inclined, it would help your enjoyment of this one to know that Gordon has been revealed as not being Jeff Tracy’s biological son, and that Jeff did not react as well as he could have when this came to light. So now, although the brothers are still tight as ever, Jeff and Gordon are somewhat emotionally distanced when the story begins. I broke them, I need to fix them – hence this story.  
> This is yet another post-hydrofoil crash story, but I have dived headfirst into my research and imagining of what the medical options available in the 2050s might be, so this story is, I think, a little different to anything else I’ve read that has Gordon’s crash as a starting point. It is intense hurt/comfort, with suffering, swearing, and sweetness, probably in that order.  
> This is mostly a two-hander featuring that lovely pair, Gordon and Virgil. It is Virgil’s POV throughout. Scott and Jeff make appearances, but this one is chiefly for those who love the TB2 boys in all their snarky, silly, affectionate glory.  
> There may be other, smaller entries in this series, but for now, this is the end of Tumble Turn’s main story.  
> My sincere thanks to my outstanding beta, Soleill Lumiere, who dragged me into the TAG fandom in the first place and keeps feeding the flames. She has cheered this one on from the start, and made it so much better with her editing and enthusiasm.

Caught in the Rip  
(Part 2 of Tumble Turn series) 

Part One: Ebb Tide

Chapter 1. Handover

Scott looked exactly as Virgil expected him to, sitting upright in the hospital cafeteria chair as though by sheer power of thought alone. Virgil knew without being told that Scott had sent every ounce of energy and positivity that he possessed to Gordon, lying in the paralysis unit three storeys above them. Their brother had been there for the last nine weeks since his hydrofoil exploded around him, at full speed. Now that Virgil was closer, Scott seemed so exhausted that Virgil found himself asking how he was before he even mentioned their little brother.

“I’m okay. Will be.” Scott sat with a coffee in front of him, slowly letting it get cold. “Your flight good? I’m real glad you’re here, Virge.”

Virgil dropped his carry-on bag by his feet, put his own coffee on the table.

“Sorry I’m late. Got delayed last minute in KC, waiting on the final doctor’s report on Grandma. And I’m sorry I had to go in the first place, when -” he began, but Scott cut him off, firmly.

“Grandma needed you more, and you were here when it mattered, when we didn’t know if – “ Scott broke off, and Virgil nodded. He didn’t need to be reminded of those first grim days, or the first weeks that followed when Gordon was barely able to speak and the only language he knew when he did was pain. “It still matters,” Scott continued, with an effort. “Glad you’re here.”

Scott, like their father, wasn’t given to repeating himself often. Virgil noticed when he did.

“So how is he?”

Scott gave a small frown.

“Upbeat. He has his hopes pinned on this new procedure, this Hsiang tech.”

“I guess that’s good?”

Scott picked up his coffee finally, then looked at it as if he didn’t know what it was. He pushed it back on the table, wearily. 

“It has a hundred percent success rate for some. Be amazing if Gordon’s one of the lucky ones.”

“And he’s been so lucky so far,” Virgil said, trying to hide the bitterness he felt that his little brother had been the victim of such a terrible technical failure on the part of WASP.

“Well, you know, he has? I mean, let’s face it, Virge. He should be dead. Should’ve died when the damn thing blew apart, should’ve drowned when they couldn’t get him out, shouldn’t have made it to surgery or through those first few days. God, I’ve never seen a human being so… You know what I thought when I saw him? That night?”

Virgil shook his head, a strong feeling of unease building in his gut. He knew Scott so well, relied on him even more. He had the sense that Scott was tethered by gossamer thread here, tossed on unseen winds that threatened to tear him from his moorings.

“The image just came into my head. That freaky scarecrow, at the Mertens’ farm, the one that was all falling apart and crazy looking. Creeped John out for some reason. Guess it was the way everything was hanging out and kind of wrong, like some crazy person had made it deliberately that way and that bothered John so much. He wanted to fix it, but he was freaked out by it too so he couldn’t get near it. Yeah. That’s what I was thinking about when I looked at my brother.” 

If Virgil was ashamed of his own bitterness it was nothing compared to this darkness being revealed in his big brother.

“That was then,” he said, carefully. “I spoke to Dad last night. He told me that Gordon’s doing well. All the bone replacement has taken as well as they could have hoped. Amazing, right? This new plastic-metal compound. Duro-plastic spine, plastic pelvis, plastic humerus, plastic femurs. Supposed to be stronger and more flexible than titanium, he said, and he said all the swelling’s gone down, the scars are healing.” Why he was telling Scott how their brother was when Scott had been the guy on the ground for nine weeks now, Virgil wasn’t sure. He just knew he needed to tether Scott tighter against that wind.

“Yeah. He’s plastic fantastic now.” Scott rubbed his hand slowly over his face. “You know, he’s going to be twenty five percent lighter? He’ll float like a cork.”

Virgil gave a dutiful little laugh.

“He always did. Couldn’t keep him down. In or out of the water.”

There was no response from Scott, and Virgil saw he was drifting as he sat there, so tired he didn’t even have the strength to sleep.

He cleared his throat. “So this new technology, huh? Sounds amazing. A whole new spinal cord.”

Scott gave the smallest of nods. The penny finally dropped for Virgil.

“You really don’t think he should go for this new procedure, do you?”

It was as if the mere asking of the question gave Scott permission to unleash his frustration.

“No! No, I don’t. I tried like hell to talk him out of it. He wouldn’t listen. He never damn well listens.”

Virgil, knowing that ‘to me’ was the unspoken end of that sentence, wisely said nothing.

Scott’s hand fisted on the table top. “They could fit him with the mobishield tomorrow, he’d be walking out of here by this time in three weeks.”

“But he won’t have it?”

“No. Says he’ll take his chances with the Hsiang tech. But there are hundreds of thousands of people out there walking around right now who were once quadriplegics, Virge. The mobishield works. And yes, I get it – he’d have to wear it for the rest of his life, and that’s lousy. But it’s proven, it’s safe, and he’d be able to function independently.”

Virgil found himself in the not unusual position of playing devil’s advocate with Scott.

“No feeling in his body though. That’d be weird, be like living in a head suspended five feet off the ground. Imagine looking down and seeing a body with arms and legs moving about because your brain thought it but not feeling it belonged to you?” From nowhere John’s idea of willing a family into being came into Virgil’s mind. He suspected there was a connection there he didn’t want to examine too closely.

“Better than taking a chance on this new thing.”

Virgil considered him carefully.

“This doesn’t sound like you. We’ve always taken risks, Scott. Hell, the company would be nothing if Dad hadn’t taken a chance on new technologies, every day.”

“Let’s not talk about risk-taking with new tech when our brother can’t move anything below his neck thanks to just that!”

“Okay,” Virgil soothed. “Fair enough. So tell me – what is it you don’t like about this new procedure? You said it had a 100 percent success rate?”

Scott looked grim. “For the eighteen percent who make it through.”

“What?” Virgil was shocked. “It’s that dangerous?”

“No, not what I meant.” Scott, quickly contrite. “Sorry. No, the patients choose to discontinue the treatment. Only eighteen percent stick it out.”

This was not something anyone had mentioned to Virgil before. His stomach gave a slow turn.

“So what stops them?”

Scott shook his head. “I don’t know, not for sure. I had to take a call from Colonel Urquhart just as the doctor was getting to all that. But she’s coming in this afternoon, Dr Brabazon, final pre-flight check. Make sure you ask then.”

“You’re back in Air Force mode, aren’t you?”

“What?”

“You said pre-flight, not pre-op.”

His brother closed his eyes, briefly. “I guess.”

“No, no guesswork. You can’t wait to get back.” Virgil felt a flood of sympathy for his brother, caught on a rack of duty between the two loves of his life, family and flying.

“It’s not what you think.” Scott turned the coffee cup in his hand, seemingly unwilling even to take its small comfort. “You know I’d say to hell with the Air Force if Gordon asked me to, even with the national re-call. To hell with Bereznik and all their crazy doings. To hell with national security.”

“I know it’s been hard on everyone. I kept thinking I should be here while I was helping Grandma on the farm, and then I’d feel bad about Grandma coping alone.”

“No, come on, Virgil. Dad was – is right. We all have lives we need to keep living, and Grandma needed you. She ran herself into the ground here, worrying about Gords, about all of us. I think Dad was so relieved when she had to go back to the farm after we heard about the fire in the barn, thinking she’d get a break. And then, the way you flew out there when she got sick... I know Dad appreciated it, we all did. And John was here at the hospital, for most of it, Alan too. John would be here right now if Gordon hadn’t insisted he go back to Florida for the pre-mission training. Alan had to get back to school. And like I said, you were here when it mattered. I’m just so grateful you’re here now.”

And he was. Virgil could feel that Scott, that rock of mental strength and discipline, was almost done. Nine weeks of holding six peoples’ head above water while slowly drowning yourself would do that, he guessed.

He turned the conversation back to what he would meet when he went upstairs.

“You said he’s upbeat?”

Scott gave another of his blink-and-miss-it winces, a tightening of the mouth and eyes that signalled wailing levels of distress in anyone else.

“Yeah. Mister Positivity, that’s our Gordon. He’s been so strong, Virge, from the start. When I had to tell him the prognosis, C1 fracture, tetraplegia, all of it, he just looked me in the eye and said, ‘S’okay, Scotty. I’ll deal.’ And he has, I know he fights every day to keep that promise but – I don’t know. I don’t know, Virge.”

Virgil frowned. “Wait – the tetraplegia? You said you told him? Where was Dad?”

And straightforward, down the line, stand up Scott did that thing he only ever did when it came to Dad nowadays. His gaze flickered, left and down, as he prepared to vacillate.

“Dad was there. He was there 24/7, first three weeks, you know that.”

“And since?”

“He’s still here, when he can be. He’s over in the hotel, working from there as much as he can. Just left for Washington this morning. But he knows I have it in hand.” Defensiveness was never a good look on Scott because it swung so quickly into aggression.

“Still.” 

“Still nothing. It’s not like those two were – look, they both meant well.” Scott dared Virgil to argue the point. “They both kept it polite.”

Polite. 

Virgil dipped his head, took another sip of coffee. He guessed there was a lot more to all this than Scott would willingly tell him, and the realisation of what had gone on here saddened him. He understood, suddenly, that even though there had been no reconciliation between Gordon and Dad in the three months prior to the crash he had invested a fair bit of hope in the thought that there would be a bedside renewal of ties; a post-crash commitment to put aside any issues of paternity and recognise that they loved each as other as father and son, genetics be damned.

“Telling him should never have been your job.”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve probably screwed it all up, too.”

Criticism of Scott hadn’t entered Virgil’s mind. This kind of self-flagellation was the other end of the defensive pendulum swing.

“That’s bullshit, Scotty. You said Gordon’s upbeat – that means you’ve done a hell of a job keeping him going.”

And now the honest Scott was back, eyes meeting his and not trying to hide the worry.

“I don’t know. It’s so – it’s unnatural. No, that’s the wrong word. I should leave the talking to you and John. You and he figure this stuff out better than I do. Or Alan. Alan’s been amazing, you know? Right from the start, he’s kept us all going, him and Gordon. The Trouble Twins have been tap-dancing like mad to keep the rest of us positive. Ugh.” He grimaced. “Tap-dancing. That’s a shitty kind of metaphor for Gordon nowadays.”

Virgil tried for a grin.

“Yeah, metaphors? Usually not your kind of thing.”

“Yeah? Well, here’s another one.” Scott leant forward. “I keep thinking of ducks on a pond. Scooting along on the surface, quacking happily, looking like everything’s easy, and underneath those feet are pedalling like mad. That’s Gordon. It’s one big show. Christ. It’s what he always does. Why isn’t he ever real?”

The outburst startled Virgil, but before he could comment, Scott was doing some back-pedalling of his own.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know why I said that. Sorry, Virge.”

“I’ll give it a guess.” Virgil reached over the table and held Scott’s forearm. The fact that Scott let him spoke volumes. “You’re exhausted. You’ve given everything you’ve got. You know damned well that decisions and emotions get screwed around when personnel are over-stretched.”

Bringing the conversation to a military footing was the right call. Virgil could see the moment when the message got through and Scott pulled back slightly, straightened a little.

“You’re right. Yeah, you’re right. I just need some down time for a couple of hours.”

More than a couple of hours were needed here, but Virgil didn’t argue. He guessed the Air Force was experienced enough in the handling of stressed and exhausted people that they would take the appropriate action to care for Scott when he arrived back at the base, all questions of national security emergencies aside. He already knew that Scott was being picked up in the next half hour; he’d like to bet that he slept for most of the trip, whether in car or plane.

“I better go. Get my stuff, get out there.” Scott gestured with his head towards the front of the hospital. “I’m not doing anyone any good here.” He stood and put his hand out for Virgil to shake.

“Scott, you’ve done an amazing job.” Virgil stood as well, gripping Scott’s hand and suddenly aware that he really didn’t want him to go. Scott shook his head slightly.

“If I’d done my job well, I would’ve talked him out of this. But he’s so damned stubborn. I don’t know where he gets it from.”

Dad, Virgil thought, and suspected Scott did too, but didn’t say.

“I’ll keep you in the loop, let you know how we’re getting on.”

“Yeah, do that. I’ll be back as soon as I can, but I just can’t say when that will be, with the Defcon rating what it is. Virgil – “ Scott hesitated, then shook his head again. “If you need me, you say. Don’t hide anything from me, okay?”

Not like Gordon does. Virgil caught that unspoken message loud and clear, but he wondered if it was a promise he could make in good conscience.

Scott smiled then, sad and tired, and reached for a hug. Virgil gave it to him, trying not to let anything but strength into that tight circle. 

With a final, “See you soon,” Scott turned away. It was all Virgil could do not to call him back, tell him he didn’t want this responsibility, he wasn’t old enough or strong enough or brave enough for this. But with one of those moments of insight that came to him sometimes, with deeper and colder truths than he ever really wanted to know, he realised that each of his brothers, and probably his father too, had thought the exact same thing. 

Whatever he had to give was all Gordon had to call on, for now. The fact that Scott had turned his back and walked out the door was a sign of immense trust and faith in his middle brother. It was humbling, and more than a little overwhelming, but Virgil knew he would bring every ounce of strength he had to bear. He would not let Scott or Gordon or anyone else down.

With one last gulp of cold coffee, Virgil headed for the elevators and the first sight of his little brother in five long weeks.  
 


	2. Chapter2: Ebb Tide

Chapter 2. Eighteen

A mobishield was suspended in a glass case at the entrance to the ward on the third floor. Virgil paused to look at it closely before entering through the double doors. The mobishield was lit from beneath, highlighting the intricate networks of wires and struts that created the physical support provided by the body suit. It was sized for an adult male – a translucent humanoid shell into which a paralysed body could be inserted and connected, allowing movement that imitated that of a fully functioning person even if it could not make the wearer feel anything beyond the kind of body awareness that would stop them from falling over. That awareness was generated in the neural implant pack, here attached at the shoulder but in practice inserted on the side of the skull.  
Virgil spared a moment to imagine a life encased in the thing before him, and found himself almost unconsciously flexing his fists against an imaginary barrier. It brought a faint shudder; the thought of a lifetime of entrapment, of feeling human above the neck while becoming a kind of human crustacean below repulsed him. He told himself that he was fortunate not to be the one dependent upon it, that many people, as Scott had said, lived their lives gratefully and successfully thanks to the engineering of it. Once clothed, people in mobishields were almost indistinguishable from those with non-augmented bodies. But the thought of his graceful, energetic, free spirited brother being manhandled into that hard plastic horrified Virgil.

It was something he would have to get over, he knew. It may well be that the mobishield would be his brother’s ultimate rescue mode. The prime minister of Australia used one, and the world’s leading chemist too, when she wasn’t bodily incapacitated in a wheelchair while her mind scoured the galaxies. A mobishield was better than a lifetime of immobilisation for a guy who existed so much in the physical realm. The mobishield was a significant advancement from the days of the iron lung or the mechanised wheelchair, and if the Hsiang tech did not prove to be the answer for Gordon, in time they might all come to appreciate its benefits. 

But was it wrong of him to hope that they wouldn’t have to?

He pushed a button and waited until the doors opened automatically, allowing him to enter and walk towards the nurse on duty at the front desk. He vaguely recalled meeting him weeks ago, when Gordon was first wheeled out of ICU and into the specialist ward. It was quickly obvious that the nurse recognised him, too.

“Hello. You’re here for Gordon, aren’t you? Scott mentioned there’d be a changing of the guard.” The nurse came around from behind the desk, hand outstretched. “I’m Byron. Nice to see you back.”

“Hello, Byron, I’m Virgil.” Virgil shook his hand, trying not to look at all the images of happy patients in mobishields that were rotating through on screens behind the nursing station. “I remember you from last time. About five weeks ago? Seems a long time since I was here.”

“Oh, yes. You’ll see a big change. Our boy’s looking a lot better than when you saw him last.” Byron turned towards one of six rooms that branched off from the central station. Virgil hesitated.

“There’s no security?”

Byron smiled, and leant towards him confidentially.

“Your father left an ID scan of each member of your family. All our patients have the same facility. If you didn’t show clear as you stood outside the door, I wouldn’t have let you in.”

“Oh.” Virgil didn’t waste time feeling foolish; he was just glad that the hospital seemed to have everything in hand.

The first impression of his brother’s room was one of light and space. A full length window comprised the far wall, with a sunny view across the street to a park and houses beyond. The bed was positioned halfway down the room, with a diagnostic wall behind the head of it and a strong light, currently shaded, suspended above it. Directly opposite the bed was a wall of computer screens; in the near corner as he entered, Virgil saw a large, translucent blue cubicle that was the washroom. White chairs, table and lounge created a nook by the window. Overall it felt more like a large, hyper-modern hotel room than a hospital one, and Virgil blinked to adjust to the brightness.

“Virgil! Hey, good to see you!” Gordon’s gaze had swung sideways to welcome him, a huge grin on his face. “You’ve just missed Scotty – the Air Force called him back to save the world, since he’s the only decent pilot they have. Here - take a load off.” He gestured with his eyes to the seat beside the bed, and Virgil swung his bag down to drop it by the chair before leaning over to gently palm Gordon’s cheek.

“I didn’t miss him. We’ve been catching up downstairs. You’re looking a hell of a lot better, Gordo.”

“’Course. Beauty will out. Plus, moisturisers. They’re a boy’s best friend.” Virgil smiled obediently, but Gordon damn near winked. “No, I’m serious. They rub moisturiser into my face every five minutes, I swear. Got all that super gross swelling down, now keeps me downy soft. I’ll look five years younger by the time I’m outta here.”

“Uh-huh. Which means you’ll look thirteen. Not sure you want to go there.” Virgil sat down and looked about him. It was all far less rushed and quietly tense than it had been when he left. “Looks like you’ve got yourself well and truly settled in here. Don’t know why you’d want to leave, facials and all.”

“You’re not kidding. Look.” Gordon turned his eyes towards the far screen, seeming to stare at particular spots before blinking. As Virgil watched, the screen shifted from a local news broadcast to a screen with a chess match in progress. Another blink, and the white bishop cut diagonally across several squares to threaten an unfortunate black knight. “Ha! I’ve got her this time. Look, Virge, three more moves and it’s all over.”

“Really?” Virgil was far more fascinated by the technology than the game itself. “I knew they had eye controlled screens, but I thought they had to be far closer to the controller to work.”

“Nope. I can do just about everything. Can beat someone at chess when they’re 2,000 kilometres away. Change channels, adjust volume, send digitext. Cannot scratch my butt but then, I can’t feel it either, so win- win.”

Yeah. Win-win. It was such a sad categorisation of ‘everything’ that Virgil had to work hard not to show it. But Gordon was conducting this piece; he could set the mood and tempo, and clearly this was scherzo. Sadness not welcome.

“How’s Grandma? You pass the baton to Alan? Is she better?”

“The pneumonia’s better, but she still gets tired because she – “

“Tries to do too much,” they finished together, and Virgil chuckled. “She was really sick, and it’s probably the hardest thing I’ve had to do, wrangle a seventy year old back to bed because she figured she’d give me a decent breakfast each day before I went out on the tractor. Now that Alan’s there and back at school, I think he can turn the puppy eyes on her and get her to do what she’s told.”

Gordon made a snorting sound.

“She’s always been the biggest handful in the family, I don’t care what Jeff says. I’m glad you were there with her, though,” he said, unconsciously echoing Scott. “Did they ever figure out who burnt down the barn? I’d like five minutes alone with whoever did that.”

It was such an expected statement in a way, that Virgil didn’t process it for a moment. The brutal response – what on earth could you do in this state? – barely registered in his mind, but it was there, nonetheless. It may have shown briefly in his eyes, because Gordon blinked rapidly for a second before looking back towards the wall screen. Virgil quickly covered the moment.

“The collected wisdom of Coniston County is that it was lightning strike. They had a series of big storms there that week. Killed a cow of Jaynie Curren’s.”

“So no chance of vigilante justice, then?”

“Nope. Not unless John can do something spectacular to Thor when he goes up in orbit next week.”

“Hehe. You remember all those comics I used to read?” Gordon blinked at the screen and it changed to images of underwater seascapes as soft alt rock began playing. “Remember when there was that big thunderstorm and I told Alan that Thor was real, and pissed, and was coming to get him for tearing up my Aquaman comics?”

“Remember? Dad’s still footing the therapy bills.”

“I think that’s why he wants to fly rockets.” Another missed gesture, a finger pointing to the sky that would inevitably accompany any discussion of Alan’s and John’s career choices. “No weather up there.”

“I think it took me a week to prise his fingers off my arm,” Virgil said, smiling at the memory. “You were such a little shit.”

“Still am.” Gordon’s grin became a tad more ferocious. “Do not let the current service disruption fool you. Besides, I have the net at my disposal. Many, many things can be accomplished whilst lying resplendent in recliner mode.”

“I just know there’s a dirty joke there somewhere.”

“There is always a dirty joke in there,” Gordon said, sententiously. “You just have to be committed to finding it.”

“Far be it from me to diss your life’s work.” They grinned at each other, happy in spite of everything just to be in each other’s company again.

“So, did Captain Grouch get at you downstairs?” The way Gordon was forced to move his eyes sideways to get eye contact gave him a perpetually mischievous look that would have been disconcerting on anyone else. With Gordon, it was close to his default anyway. “Don’t get me wrong, he’s gone above and beyond, you know? Been amazing. Also been a pain in the previously mentioned butt, but that’s Scott, right?”

Virgil chose his words carefully. “He did say something about this new technique you’re talking about trying…”

“Pfft.” Gordon rolled his eyes. “I’m not talking about trying anything. I’m booked in, it’s happening. Tomorrow morning, first thing. Done and done.”

“Okay. Fair enough. Scott mentioned a doctor coming in to see you later?”

“Yeah, Dr Brabazon. She’s awesome, she knows everything about this kind of thing and she thinks I’ve got a red hot chance of skipping out of here. You better believe I’m going to grab that, Virge.”

The lack of an expressive arm wave was something that Virgil immediately noticed and missed. Gordon always used his whole body in communication, arms, hands, legs, even feet adding parentheses and exclamation points. Now Gordon’s body lay quiescent upon a gently undulating gel bed. The rolling currents through the bed prevented pressure sores, Virgil knew; the electrodes wrapped around his brother’s body sent electrical pulses through his muscles as he lay there, helping to reduce muscle wastage. The straps across his chest lifted his diaphragm, inhaling and exhaling oxygen. It was all clever and cutting edge, and none of it gave Gordon the slightest chance of autonomous movement. 

How hard would I fight for that? Virgil wondered. If I could never play the piano again. If I had to paint with a brush between my teeth.

“Scott said he was a bit concerned at the tech?”

“He’s such a hypocrite!” Gordon raised his voice, obviously continuing an already well-rehearsed argument with his absent brother. “This technique will let me be myself again. I’ll get a new nervous system, brand new, Virgil. I’ll be as good as new. In eighteen days I’ll be high-kicking out of here, and Scott is trying to tell me there is too much risk. From him! Biggest hot-dogger on the planet and he’s talking about unacceptable percentages! I swear, it’s a good thing the Air Force called for him to come and play shoot ‘em ups again, or I would have kicked him the hell outta here!”

“Whoa.” Virgil held his hands up in the universal gesture of a truce. “I’m just asking, Gordon. I got the full mobishield spiel from Dad and another weird one about this technique from Scott, so I’m just asking here to find out what the hell this thing entails -”

“It’s really simple – “

“ - And what kinds of risk factors it holds.” Virgil gave his brother The Look, the one he knew Gordon could never face down. “Scott’s no idiot, Gords. If he’s worried, there’s reason. I’m not saying I’m taking his side, just – he’s not the type to jump at shadows. You know that.”

“Yeah, and if there’s a chance to make a godawful fuss about something he won’t miss that, either.” Gordon’s bottom lip was jutting forward as willfully as it had done when he was five years old, not eighteen. 

“Well, I’m listening. Why don’t you tell me what your version is? And then we can listen to what Dr Brabazon has to say.”

But almost as he said it a flurry of white coats irrupted into the room, with the kind of abruptness reserved for those whose own time was far more precious than anyone else’s in their vicinity, and Virgil realised he’d missed his chance to hear the plain-speaking version.

“Gordon. You look rested.” Dr Brabazon (announced by both her badge and her demeanour) had a voice that spoke of no time for pleasantries. One eyebrow arched at Virgil and he immediately regressed to the state of that same five year old Gordon was channelling. “You are?”

“Uh – Virgil Tracy, sir. Ma’am. Doctor.”

“A brother.” She peered at him through bright red horn rim glasses. “Do I have your stem cells?”

Virgil fought the urge to giggle in terror. “Not unless I left them here?”

“Hey, Dr Brabz.” Gordon, astonishingly, looked cheerful and unfazed by the arrival of the fearsome surgeon beside his bed. “No, I don’t think you got a scrape from Virgil. Do you want some? Virge? Mind scraping off some cells for me?”

Dr Brabazon shook her head. “That’s not necessary. We have already created the PNSU. So, Gordon, you are rested and ready for the procedure tomorrow. You’ve signed the indemnity?”

Virgil’s, “What indemnity?” was lost against Gordon’s louder, “Sure. Can’t wait.”

“Good.” She nodded briskly, and motioned for the junior doctor (lackey, in Virgil’s mind) to switch on a tiny recording device. As she turned to seat herself in the other chair beside Gordon’s bed she paused to send Virgil a glare that communicated, in no uncertain terms, her unwillingness to discuss anything further in front of him.

The look galvanised a hitherto untapped resistance. He crossed his arms, suddenly smiling. “Oh, I’m staying. Looking forward to hearing this.”

The doctor looked momentarily surprised, as if a patient on an operating table had risen up to slap her wrist. Then she simply dismissed Virgil as being of no further interest, and focused on her patient.

“Do you wish him to be here for this?”

Gordon made a sound like a chuckle. It lacked the breath to be convincing, but the effect was there. 

“Oh, yeah. If he’s not, he’ll just badger the hell outta me till I tell him everything anyway. Fire away.”

“Very well. Gordon, you have signed up –“

“Question.” Virgil half raised his hand and then thought better of it. “How did he sign?”

Gordon sent him a glare that almost matched the doctor’s. “Scott signed as my proxy. Under my direct instruction. Satisfied?” At Virgil’s grudging nod, the doctor’s nostrils twitched and she continued.

“You have signed up for the implementation of the procedure designed by Dr Hsiang in order to regenerate your spinal cord. You are aware that this procedure is classified as experimental and that a favourable outcome is in no way guaranteed or implied. Furthermore, you are aware that this process can cause significant and intense discomfort.”

Virgil half-raised his hand again. “Discomfort? What do we mean by that?”

“Who cares?” Gordon, the eternal fidgeter, must have been aching to tap his foot or lift his shoulders. “It’s gonna take what it’s gonna take. The pay-off is worth it.”

Virgil never shifted his eyes from Dr Brabazon. “What do we mean by discomfort?”

Dr Brabazon looked back at him, unblinking. “That is impossible to predict. Every patient responds differently, dependent upon their nervous system’s reaction to the neuro-regeneration process.”

“What are the parameters?” Back at you, doc.

To her credit, or at least as a testament to her immunity to bullish males, she appeared unbothered by Virgil’s combativeness. “In some patients the response will be strong tingling. A pins and needles effect as the endogenous spinal reactivation occurs. In others it can generate fasciculation – muscle tremors – which can be localised or severe and incapacitating. For those on the other end of the spectrum –“

“Wait, that’s the good end?”

“For those on the other end of the spectrum,” she repeated, with steel in her voice, “there can be deep somatic pain alongside the other symptoms. Multifocal polyneuropathy. Strong neural over-stimulation resulting in burning sensations or acute neural pain.”

“That sounds – horrible.” 

“But!” Gordon said, a note of desperation in his voice. “It’s all temporary, right? Good or bad, it’s just eighteen days. I can take eighteen days for the chance to live my life fully again.”

“Eighteen days of agony?” Virgil glared at both of them. “And where are we plucking this eighteen days figure from?”

“That is the median length of time before the regeneration process is complete and nociception ceases. We remove the unit and the nervous system settles into its normal state of neurological homeostasis.”

“Median. So it could go on much longer?”

“Or could be much shorter.” Scott’s tap dancing comment came to mind as Gordon brought everything to bear to project just how happy this was all making him. “Show him the fibres, doc.”

It was astonishing how his brother could breeze past the defences of the most formidable people as if they weren’t there. Virgil would need three scotches and gun at his head before he would dare to call this woman ‘doc’, yet Gordon did it without a moment’s hesitation – and, as usual, it seemed as though she didn’t even mind. Not that it would stop Gordon either way, Virgil thought wryly.

Dr Brabazon inclined her head, and the junior doctor reached into his pocket and pulled out a cluster of shining, soft fibres. Each one was so fine it reminded Virgil of his best brushes, the ones made to simulate sable hair. Dr Brabazon took the cluster, no thicker than a couple of copper wires, and held it so that the fibres caught the overhead light. 

“This is what we use to synthesise the new spinal cord. Gordon already has an artificial spine with an appropriate channel into which this is inserted. Once in place, we begin the process of artificially creating new axions – new neural connections to the old nervous system – by the implantation of the PNSU.”

“Poly-neural stimulation unit,” Gordon explained. “It’s known as Penis – U for short.”

“It is not kno – “ Dr Brabazon sighed. A lesser woman would have pinched the bridge of her nose, Virgil thought. “We insert the PNSU into the first cervical nerve, just above the cerebellum. The PNSU contains growth hormones, stem cells, and chemical stimulants that mimic but greatly exaggerate the effects of similar hormones and stem cells in foetal development. What happens is a highly accelerated process of growth along these fibres and out towards the extant but currently unconnected nervous system. The fibres are absorbed through an artificially initiated myelination process. This growth around the fibres occurs through the cervical segment, then the thoracic, the lumbar and finally the sacral segments.”

“So – you supercharge the nervous system and regrow the parts that have been damaged. And while this jazzed up growth is occurring the rest of the nerves are thrown into a frenzy.”

“Your choice of words is somewhat histrionic.”

“Yeah, that’s me,” said Virgil, drily. 

“Dr Hsiang’s process stimulates connections between neurons; preganglionic neurons in the central nervous system and postganglionic neurons in the extremities.”

“I’m real fond of my extremities, Virgil,” said Gordon, earnestly.

“It works.” Dr Brabazon finished her spiel with simple certitude.

“With an eighteen percent success rate,” Virgil said, with rather more heat than he intended.

“No, it has a hundred percent success rate in terms of neural regeneration. The eighteen percent simply refers to those who allow the neural-regeneration to continue until its completion. Those who don’t, of course, have a comparatively unsatisfactory outcome. However, there is no recorded instance of a patient who did not experience some level of successful re-connection of neural pathways.”

“So, if I stick with it, I win.” Gordon grinned at him, his eyes a little too bright, too intense. “And I know all about winning. So this is a lay down misere.”

Virgil shifted uneasily. This sounded horrendous to him, but he was cursed with a mind that insisted on seeing multiple viewpoints, and it was all too easy to see what Gordon was thinking and feeling here. He hesitated, but then decided that the question was an important one. 

“What does Dad say?”

Instantly, the first flicker of something darker crossed Gordon’s face. 

“He’s fine with it.”

That surprised Virgil. “Really? I would have thought he’d be all over this. Is it the only option? Is it the best one?”

“He signed over the funds. I guess he figures it’s okay.”

“You guess? Have you discussed this with him?”

“Enough.” That mulish glint was back in Gordon’s eyes. “I discussed it enough.”

Virgil resolved to be on the phone to his father the minute this discussion was over. In the meantime, there were more details to be extracted from the good Dr Brabazon.

“So what are the risks? What is Gordon risking here?”

Again, her gaze was so focused and direct he felt as though she was lasering him with it. “In the worst case scenario, of an extreme level of nociception, the heart can be at risk. If at any time we feel that is the case, Gordon will be advised to cease the process. However, at this stage the circumstances look very good. Gordon’s heart tests at above average capacity, and his high levels of fitness prior to the traumatic damage to his spine mean that he has an excellent prognosis in terms of his ability to undergo the procedure.”

“And if he has to stop it, he can still be fitted for a mobishield?’ Virgil ignored Gordon’s sound of disgust, watching Dr Brabazon closely.

“Patients who abandon the Hsiang procedure have been successfully fitted with the mobishield instead, yes. It’s true that the re-introduction of nervous sensation at any level can mean that wearing the mobishield after this can be significantly more uncomfortable. However, the fact remains, Mr Tracy, that for every day he can persist with the treatment he will regain mobility and sensation.” She inclined her head slightly. “Worth attempting, don’t you think?”

“That’s for Gordon to decide, don’t you think?”

“Annnd he’s back in the room.” Gordon sounded annoyed. “Gordon has decided, and Gordon is glad that the conversation about his own damn self has now come back to including him.”

Virgil grimaced. “Sorry.”

A blink that had to suffice as a hand wave. “Ah, s’okay. But I have gone over all this, Virge, I know what I’m signing up for. And frankly, I can’t wait. The sooner we get into it, the sooner I am going to get out of this place. No offence, doc.”

“None taken.” She stood up, decisive. “Any further questions? Either of you,” she added. 

“How long’s the surgery?”

“Seven hours for the actual implantation. We have to thread the fibres through the spinal cord and attach them at each plexus. There will be a team of six of us. I will be lead surgeon, of course.”

“Right.” The structure of the thing was there, in his mind, but he couldn’t help but feel that he was missing much of the important detail work. “Do you have anything I could use to read up about all this?”

“Of course.” A quick nod to the lackey, and he was passing Virgil a small information insert. “All the specifications, trial results and statistical work is on there. Gordon, I will see you tomorrow in surgery. Mr Tracy?” Dr Brabazon extended her hand to him, and he shook it, a little taken aback. “I am glad you’re here. Patients always do better with support, and I am sure you are going to be an excellent advocate on Gordon’s behalf.” Virgil was surprised to see that there was a faint gleam of something approaching approval in her eye as she nodded farewell to him before sweeping from the room, junior doctor bobbing in her wake.

She was glad he was here, Scott was glad, Gordon was glad. Everyone was glad he was here, apparently. But standing in a hospital room with the information insert in his hand and his kid brother beaming at him in a silent but urgent quest for approval, Virgil couldn’t help but think of the surgery in the morning and wish that they were both anywhere else.


	3. Breakers

Chapter 3. Breakers.

“I’m sorry, Virgil, your father is unavailable right now. Can I take a message?”

Virgil frowned, irritated and tired and fighting a rising sense of impending disaster as he stood with the phone at his ear by the window in Gordon’s room. He didn’t realise how badly he wanted to hear his father’s calm certitude before he was denied it.

“Just let him know I rang, and could he ring back asap? Thanks, Polly. Oh, and Gordon’s okay,” he added, as he realised the effect his message might have without that rider. He tapped off the phone and stared, irresolute, out the floor length window while his brother napped on the bed behind him.

The light was almost gone from the sky above the housing blocks and park across the way. Street lighting would soon dull the stars into an orange infused blandness, but for now he could see Venus as a pinprick of brilliance, seeming to glow through the reflection of Gordon’s body in the window. Cars drove past, headlights automatically activating as the light dimmed. It was a time for heading home, back to families and friends after a day of work or the nearby beach, and Virgil felt that strange homesickness that so often caught him unawares; it summoned up no particular place or time, no particular voice or touch, but it made him ache for something unnameable. Sometimes he wondered if it was his mother he was missing in these moments of inchoate nostalgia. Whatever it was, he knew how to remedy it. A simple dose of his dad and his brothers, and that remedy was denied him right now and would be for some time to come.

Where was Scott now? Back at the Air Force base, probably. Pushing past his exhaustion to be the go-to guy everyone thought he was, prepping his squadron. No doubt worrying about Gordon, worrying about Grandma, when he should be worrying about his squadron and what they would be facing in the days to come. And John – Virgil knew he was one week away from achieving his life’s dream of going into space. He’d be in pre-flight quarantine. He knew, too, how hard that must have been for him to leave when Gordon insisted upon it. John said little, felt more, and Virgil couldn’t help but think that John’s great space adventure would be blighted by the thought of who he was leaving behind, and how.

What would Alan be doing? Virgil could see the clock above Gordon’s bedhead, embedded in the diagnostic screen, and did some quick mental arithmetic. Home from sport practice, then, a long way away from his brothers but close to Grandma. Probably out in the dark doing those chores that Virgil had left behind, the ones that kept the farm a going concern, before starting his homework at the large kitchen table that once echoed the sounds of five young boys and now held just one. 

Poor kid, Virgil thought. You and Gordon are so close – must be hard to be in that big old farmhouse with no one but Grandma and nothing to distract you from thinking about your brothers scattered across the country, each one about to be in some kind of danger. Except me. Good old Virgil, standing here unharmed while my little brother takes on the kind of surgery that would send most people shrieking. While my big brothers risk their lives for their country in their own different ways, I’m playing useless bystander. Go me.

He rubbed his eyes, disgusted with the moroseness that was creeping into his thoughts. Upbeat, Scott had said. Gordon was upbeat. Yeah, hell, that was the time scale to Gordon’s life, upbeat, brisk, allegrezza. 

And here I am with a goddamned lacrimosa playing at my own pity party in the background.

He focused and saw in the reflection in the window that Gordon’s eyes were blinking open.

“Hey,” he said, turning and coming back to the bedside. “How’re you feeling?”

“Ugh.” Gordon blinked vigorously. “Feel like I want to stretch. Hate the way I drop off these days.” He widened his eyes with comic exaggeration, then grinned. “Okay. Stretching done.”

Virgil gave a small laugh. “You know the nurses came in and did all kinds of things to you while you were asleep? You never murmured.”

“They did?” Gordon frowned. 

“Yep. Said you often slept through the check-ups. Makes you a really good patient, apparently.” Virgil paused as he saw that Gordon’s frown remained. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I guess.” 

“What is it?”

“I dunno. Nothing. I shouldn’t complain.”

“You’re probably right, but guess what? If I can do nothing else here, I can listen to your complaints. Consider me your sounding off space.” Virgil sat down beside him. “So what is it?”

Gordon gave a slight grimace. “I guess it’s just the thought of people doing something to me and I can’t –I don’t even – argh, it’s stupid. Forget it.”

“No, I think I get it. Bit impolite, right?” Even as he said it, he could tell that he’d missed the mark somehow, but Gordon’s frown just tightened a little. 

“Sure.” With an obvious effort at changing the topic, Gordon asked, “So what did Jeff have to say?”

“Couldn’t get on to him. He’s coming back to Washington from somewhere tonight, Osaka I think Polly said.”

“He’s not going to stop me, whatever you tell him,” Gordon said suddenly. Virgil blinked.

“Excuse me? You saying you haven’t told Dad about it?”

“I’ve told him enough.”

“Ah.” Virgil worked at keeping his voice even. “But probably not some of the more interesting details? Like how this is going to affect you?”

“We don’t know how it’s going to affect me! God, you and Scott… don’t you get it?”

Virgil raised a hand in a placating gesture. “I get that it’s a chance, Gordo.”

“Yeah. A chance. Better than that.” He looked over at the wall-screen, now showing a news channel and some kind of music program. “I can’t be like this! This can’t be me. I’m eighteen years old, Virgil. This can’t be my life!”

“I get it. Really I do.” He heard the thread of distress beneath Gordon’s words, and he stepped carefully, even as he wondered if Scott had ever heard it. “The future must look kinda scary right now, I do get it. But this isn’t the last chance, either way. You know that. There’s always the mobi- “

“Don’t!” Gordon’s tone was final. “That’s not going to happen.”

“Alright,” Virgil said, trying for patience, “why don’t you explain to me why you’re not even considering it?”

“Oh, come on, genius, you tell me.” When Virgil continued to look at him with bemusement, Gordon rolled his eyes. “I’m eighteen.”

Virgil frowned. “Ye-es? And?”

“I’m eighteen, and a male. What, that mobishield shit, they have special attachments or something? Take it out of the drawer?” Gordon blew out his breath. “Now do you get it?”

Virgil was about to say any number of variations on attachments for what when illumination hit him with a blinding, not to say excruciating, flash. 

“Sex? You’re talking about having sex? That’s what this is about?”

A huff from his brother as if this was the most self-evident thing ever to escape the notice of an engineering nerd with no life and definitely, no game.

“So – so you’re putting yourself through hell for almost three weeks just to get laid?”

“Of course.” Gordon stared at him in amazement. “Wouldn’t you?” 

Virgil became aware that he was gaping and, unforgivably, on the cusp of letting out an explosive laugh. Hastily he coughed, and grabbed the small bottle of water from Gordon’s bedside to take a swig and avoid his brother’s face – which was, he realised, delivering him the best version of a side-eye he’d ever seen.

“It’s okay for you,” Gordon grumbled. “You’re not a…“ His voice dropped away to nothing.

“A what?” Another insight, and with this, Virgil felt a sharp twinge of sympathy for his kid brother. “Oh.”

“’Oh’ is right.” A kind of smile was back on Gordon’s face, but it was a rueful one. “Yeah, the guy who walked around with a permanent erection for an entire year at fourteen just never got around to doing anything about it.”

This was a new kind of minefield. 

“Well, it’s not like eighteen is unusual for not – “ Virgil waved his hand in a feeble attempt to cover the spectrum of sexual experience.

“Huh.” But Gordon was mocking him now, the little shit. “I bet you’re still saying that, right? ‘It’s not like twenty-one is unusual…’ ”

“I’ve had sex, thanks. Plenty of times.” Oh, and that was great, rubbing his brother’s face in his own limitations, but Gordon just made a small sound like a laugh.

“Jacking off doesn’t count. Your pillow is not your girlfriend, even if it’s in bed with you every night.”

Virgil would ordinarily cuff the back of his head at this stage, and the thought came to both of them at the same time. The laughter leached from Gordon’s face, evolving into the rueful look he’d had previously.

“Don’t tell anyone, will you, Virge? But you – you remember Hayley, and how you all thought we were… You know, Dad gave me The Talk, big time, wow, kinda threw condoms at me with breakfast each morning. ‘Good morning, Gordon, how are you, here, have some condoms with your Cheerios.’ Nearly gave me a virtual reality show, god, so embarrassing.”

“I remember Hayley,” Virgil said.

“Yeah, well, we never got around to doing anything. I mean, we did a lot, don’t worry, we did plenty, just not the - the full-on deed. I think she would have been okay with it, but something always made me …” He stopped, staring up at the light above the bed, thinking what to say. “I think it was Mom. I really do. All those fears about how I came about, thinking that maybe it was something just a bit less great than Immaculate Conception, and maybe Hayley would come to regret it, too.”

Oh, Gordo.

Virgil’s voice was gentle. “You have to know Mom never regretted you. Dad described you as their ‘make up baby’, the one they had that brought them back together. Hell, if it wasn’t for you, Alan would probably never have been born.”

“Really?” Gordon looked intrigued. “You’re saying he owes me?”

“I’m saying that Mom could never have faked it with Dad if whatever led to you had been traumatic. You were pretty special to them.” He changed his tone to one of tremulous emotion. “You were the girl they’d always wanted.”

It got the reaction he wanted, as Gordon grinned and muttered, “Fucker.” Then he looked thoughtful again. 

“I did have plans before all this, though. There was a girl in San Diego. She was awesome, Virge. So smart, and funny, and boy, could she surf! We met when I dropped in on her at Outlet - you know, I usually went to Black’s, but there was a wicked blow coming up from Baja that day and the barrels were – yeah, anyway. She told me in five seconds what she thought of that, and the next thing I knew I was buying her breakfast and we were talking for hours. After that we’d meet every chance, just to surf and hang out. Took her out to Sunset Cliffs, to Dolphin Tanks, did the whole thing by boat. She’s into marine science too, studying at USD, and I planned to take her away for the weekend after the hydrofoil test. So, you know, I guess I’ve blown that deposit.”

“Does she know? About what happened to you?”

If Gordon could have shrugged, he would have.

“I got no clue. I haven’t spoken to her. I don’t even know where my phone is – my locker on base, I guess. No one’s brought it here, far as I know.” He chewed at his under-lip for a moment. “Was it on the news? The crash, and everything. ‘Belly Flop for Olympian. Should have kept the training wheels on says gold medallist.’” A kind of smirk, but Virgil could tell Gordon’s heart wasn’t in it. “Or did Jeff do his usual and buy them all off?”

Virgil frowned. “I think the guys at WASP had something to do with it, too.”

“Ah. So the answer’s no. I just dropped off the face of the earth, far as Keely’s concerned.”

“I can get in touch with her, if you want. I’m sure she’d like to know.”

“After all this time? Nah, she’ll have moved on. Who would blame her?”

He didn’t like the defeatist tone that had crept into Gordon’s voice, for the first time since Virgil had come back.

“Give her a chance. You didn’t show, but if she’s as smart as you say, she will understand.”

“Maybe. But yeah. Bottom line, I’ve never done the dirty, and I guess that makes me the shallow, selfish surfer dude you all think I am, but – I don’t want to die some day after never having sex, okay? I mean, I can’t tell Jeff that’s a reason I’m spending all of his money on this, but it’s true.”

“I get that.” Virgil reached over to gently push back a lock of blond hair that had fallen over Gordon’s forehead. “If you told me I’d never have sex again – yeah, that would bother me. A lot.”

“Don’t want to miss out on your second try, huh?”

The caress turned into a sharp tap.

“Ow. You’re mean.” But Gordon was grinning again. “But at least you’ve actually had it. Once and badly, she’s still laughing, but you’ve had it. Me? I go from hero to zero, swimsuit to crab suit, and I can’t even imagine how to ask if they have a boner attachment for that.”

“The mobishield’s not a crab suit, Gordon,” Virgil said, although his own mental picture of a human crustacean came back to him at once. He knew exactly what his brother meant. “It is an option.”

“It’s a last resort, okay? And be glad I’m going there rather than saying a bullet to my brain is the last resort, because honestly? The thought of wearing that thing 24/7… you know they clean you with tiny jets of steam all over? They’re built into the damn suit, so when you want to flush through all the sweat and crap the body secretes you put yourself through steam clean cycle. Like cooking a lobster in its shell.”

“It’s a better option for a guy like you than being immobilised in a wheelchair all your life. You get to walk around, use your arms, drive. Go swimming, even. You have mobility.”

“Yeah, okay, maybe. But I’d never – “ Gordon stopped, obviously struggling to put into words something he felt so strongly. “My face is the only thing that would ever feel the sun, you know? I’d go swimming and I’d never feel the water. You could stand me in a pool and I could splash about and I’d look down and see this - this thing splashing about and I would never feel it.” Virgil could see Gordon’s distress now, plainly on his face, and he wondered how much energy his brother had been expending keeping it hidden for so long. “I know it’s selfish. I know being in a wheelchair isn’t the worst either, that people have good productive lives no matter how they get around. Or don’t get around. You’d make a go of it. John would too, he’d find a way to live in the sky even if he was stuck on the ground. I know it would be so much easier for everybody if I just said sure, fine, strap me in, let’s go. But I’d hate it, I’d really hate it, and while there’s any kind of chance at all I’m going for it. I don’t expect support, but just – don’t stop me. Please, Virge?”

“Whoa.” Virgil pulled back slightly at the level of pleading in Gordon’s voice. “Hey. Who said anything about stopping you?” 

“Scott.” Tears were welling in Gordon’s eyes, and once again his helplessness was apparent as they pooled and dripped away, unimpeded. “He tried like hell to stop me doing this. Please don’t.”

As painful as a knife to his heart, this sudden understanding of Gordon’s complete lack of agency in real terms, and Virgil realised that this was what had troubled Gordon before, when his body had been handled without his knowledge. His little brother could say what he wanted, of course, but he had no means other than his entreaties and reliance on the integrity of others to ensure that his choices were respected. It was breathtaking in a way, the level of disempowerment he was trying to overcome.

“Gordon. Gordon, take it easy. Listen to me. He was just looking out for you. Scott would never do anything you didn’t want to. And I wouldn’t either. Whatever you want, I’ll see that it happens. As far as my conscience allows, that is.” He paused, then motioned to the tears obscuring Gordon’s eyes. “In the meantime, do you want me to get that?” At the muttered “Yeah”, he reached forward with a soft cloth and gently wiped them for him.

Gordon stared at the ceiling, mouth tightening to stop any further display of emotion. After he got his voice back under control, he said, “What does that even mean?”

“It means, as long as you ask me to do something that’s not going to go against my ethics or moral principles, I’ll do it for you. Think of me as your mobile land wing, under your command. I’ll do what you ask.”

“Really?” Gordon blinked several times, but Virgil could see some kind of fear lifting from his expression. “That would be so cool.”

“Well, that’s me.”

The strange kind of half-laugh that was all Gordon could manage, and it hurt to hear it, when Gordon’s laugh used to be a high-pitched, full-bodied, doubled-over affair.

“Of course it is. Virgil my cool brother. Alan and John will be so jealous.”

Virgil cocked an eyebrow.

“Not Scott?"

“Pffft. Scott blew his chance at cool years ago. Grandma, on the other hand…”

“She? Is so cool.”

“So cool. She’s been so great, Virge. I felt so bad when she was here, just watching her work so hard, all the time, to keep everyone going. And half the time I didn’t even know anything about it, I was still out of things. I thought when she got back to the farm she’d have a rest, but then she got sick and I felt even worse. I know she wore herself out worrying over all this crap.”

“She’ll be okay. She’s tough. We Tracys cornered the market on that.”

Virgil was reminded of Scott’s near-invisible winces again. Something crossed Gordon’s face so quickly he could almost tell himself it wasn’t there. It took him a moment to replay his words and realise what caused it. Before he could say anything more to try to ameliorate it, Gordon spoke, that same brightness back in his voice that Virgil was beginning to suspect was as false as Grandma’s assurances she ‘just had a cold’.

“I guess I have to hope some of it’s rubbed off on me, right? Toughness by proximity.”

“Gordon, you are tougher than any of us. You’ve made it through Olympic training, you made it through the crash and the surgery.”

“Huh. Forget that. I made it through Grandma’s lasagne. That’s Hall of Fame, right there.”

Virgil grabbed the shift in tone gratefully.

“You remember the time she cooked tamales and put fifteen whole chillies in it to ‘give it some pep’?”

“Man, my stomach was in traction after that one.”

“And you went back for seconds.”

“Yeah. Well, I was a growing boy.”

They smiled at each other – bonding over culinary catastrophes – and Virgil saw a brief moment when something deeper would find its way into the open between them.

“I’m here for you, Gordo. No matter what. And you need to know that that goes for all of us. There’s an army fighting this, not just you. Okay?”

He got it. For a brief moment, Gordon looked at him with something that told him more than he’d ever put into words.

Then he grinned.

“The quest to get Gordon Cooper Tracy laid. And the whole family’s in on it. That’s beautiful, Virge.”

Virgil sighed. “You little shit.”

“Hashtag Happy Ending.”


	4. The Book of Days: Day Zero

“He did what?”

His father’s fury was a visceral thing, a ball of anger that rolled through the ether and across the continent from Washington to flatten Virgil on the other end of the phone.

“He said he told you about it.”

“This Hsiang travesty? Yes, he told me, and I told him in no uncertain terms that it was not going to happen. Where is he? Put him on the phone, now.”

Virgil glanced involuntarily at the slowly closing doors that led into the operating theatre.

“Dad, I just waved him through to the surgery.”

Jeff Tracy’s voice was as flat and as hard as Virgil had ever heard it.

“Get him out of there. This is not going ahead, do you hear me? Get him out.”

Virgil swallowed thickly.

“Dad, I can’t do that. They’ve gone in. They’re prepping him as we speak.”

“And you will go in there and order them to stop. I did not give my permission for this. Dammit! I thought Scott had this in hand. I told him to put a stop to this nonsense.”

“You told Scott to - ?”

“Scott had his orders. Do you think I would let Gordon go ahead with something this dangerous? There have been psychotic episodes, Virgil, there have been deaths. I did not release those funds for Gordon to do something so stupid.”

The floor seemed to shift beneath Virgil’s feet. Psychosis? Deaths? Suddenly the capable and calm staff who had come to collect Gordon that morning seemed robotic monsters, coolly taking his brother into harm’s way.

“This is the first I’ve heard of that, Dad. Maybe Gordon doesn’t know these – “

Once again, Jeff cut in across him.

“Of course he knows! And he knows damn well that I refused to pay for this. I trusted Scott to get this done.” In the background of his father’s voice, Virgil heard the sound of a bell. “Now I’ve got to go in before the senate appropriations committee. I’ve got a week of these, or there won’t be a Tracy Industries for any of us to worry about. Your job is to go in there and stop that surgery. Can I trust you to do that, son?”

“Dad, Gordon chose this.”

“Virgil, you’re wasting time. This does not go ahead. Stop the surgery. That’s an order.”

The phone went silent in his hand. 

Blindly, Virgil groped for the nearby chair, positioned for anxious relatives after they farewelled their loved ones into that stark corridor that now seemed to him to be the sluiceway to a slaughterhouse. So many thoughts assailed him that he sat heavily and stared at the white linoleum floor, finding a blank space so they could rise, one by one, into his consciousness.

The most urgent was the one his father had laid upon him with almost violent emphasis. Somehow, it had come to this; it was now left to him to make the decision that could destroy his brother’s life.

Because fairness was as fundamental to Virgil as courage was to Scott and curiosity to John, he could not abrogate the choice by bowing to his father’s command. It would be simple to do so, and the awful thing was that it may well be the right call, if his father’s dire comments about the procedure were to be believed. He’d trusted his father’s judgement all his life; if he genuinely considered this an unacceptable risk, a poor decision made out of desperation, then surely it was Virgil’s job to see his order obeyed?

And the only thing standing against him doing that, the only thing stopping him from storming through those doors this second and calling a halt to the procedure before something horrible was done to his brother’s brain, his brother’s body, was a promise he’d made when he didn’t have all the facts.

It seemed so straightforward. And yet he sat there, helpless, bound by the look in his brother’s eyes when he begged him not to deny him this chance.

Psychosis. Death. Dear god, what had he missed in his reading last night? Were those details deliberately left out of the information? Was he sitting idly by while his brother was fed to an experiment, a Molloch that consumed broken bodies in a greedy and unethical race towards knowledge and profit?

As always in times of trouble and confusion he summoned his brothers as his own inner council. And immediately that thrust forward one of the more startling revelations of this brief but portentous conversation. Scott. Straight arrow Scott had been ordered to make sure this procedure didn’t happen, and instead he’d left it in play with an adjuration to his younger brother to try and talk Gordon out of it. Had he run out of time when called up for duty? Had he deliberately delayed in order to pass on the distasteful task to him?

Had Scott, in other words, disobeyed their father and dodged his duty to his kid brother?

And when he put it like that, Virgil knew he could dismiss it. No, Scott had tried to protect that very thing that John would say was essential to human life, had said so often before. Agency. Will. Self-determination. Perhaps Scott understood better than anyone that life without risk was a choice that the Tracy boys simply wouldn’t accept. Perhaps he saw, as he tried to persuade Gordon rather than ride roughshod over his wishes, that the chance of success was worth the possible cost to him and that it was Gordon’s decision to make. That taking away the power to make that decision was as cruel as the injuries that crippled him.

Because what could Virgil do? Storm into the operating theatre, announce that Gordon did not have access to the funds needed to pay for this procedure, stand over his brother’s inert, helpless, disempowered body and tell him that he was without any choice here, any say?

He closed his eyes, held his head in his hands. 

Psychosis. Death.

And then there was Gordon himself. Oh, he’d played Virgil for a sucker, all that ‘aw, shucks’ stuff about being a virgin and not wanting his father to know what was going on because he was embarrassed. Like hell. Gordon had steered him in the direction he wanted him to go, played the diversion as neatly as a con man with a three-card trick. He’d kept Virgil from thinking too hard about just what had been discussed with the man who controlled the money. He’d thrown in stories of girlfriends and missed opportunities in an act of desperate legerdemain, hiding all those cards up his sleeve, the ones that read forbidden, denied, refused. Psychosis. Death.

For an awful moment real anger flared through his body, directed at a young man he loved who was about as punished by fate as it was possible to be. 

Abruptly, he stood and half-ran back towards the lift that would take him up to the third floor ward that had been Gordon’s home for these long weeks. He needed answers, and there was a chance he would find them there.

As he headed up to the spinal injury ward, he thought of his youngest brother, Alan, back on the farm with Grandma and unaware that his closest sibling was undergoing something that could be so momentously bad for him. What would Alan say here? The answer was easy, and simple. 

“It’s a promise, Virge. Can’t go back on a promise.”

He saw his little brother in his mind’s eye, that brightness in his face, that certainty and gusto that life and failure had yet to knock out of him. Might never knock out of him, or out of any of the Tracy boys, that stubbornness more kindly called resiliency a part of their very souls.

But not Gordon’s. Not if he took away the last vestiges of agency and condemned him to becoming the thing he hated.

As he entered the spinal injury ward he saw that several nurses were working on a new patient, bringing her gently around on the transporting gurney to swing her into her room, opposite Gordon’s. He saw Byron and Jacinta, two of Gordon’s ‘specials’, and caught Byron’s eye. There must have been something in his face that signalled the urgency, because Byron paused for a moment before giving a brisk nod and returning to looking after the new patient.

Impatiently, Virgil stood by the nurses’ station, waiting until they had the other patient transferred onto the undulating gel bed and settled in with IVs and diagnostic pads. Every second was another second further into the surgery, and that apocalyptic horseman’s hoof beats drummed in his head as he stood there, useless; psychosis, death, psychosis, death. His thinking had taken him towards a decision that would ease his conscience and uphold his own sense of honour, but at what cost? 

At last, after what seemed to Virgil to be an achingly long time, Byron came out of the other room and lifted an eyebrow at him. Before he could say anything, Virgil pounced.

“My father has just told me that there have been deaths with this Hsiang procedure. That patients have become psychotic.”

He didn’t mean to sound accusing, but he heard it in his own voice. Byron’s eyebrow rose a little higher.

“How about we step into Gordon’s room for this?”

Virgil resisted, his arms crossed in an attempt to hold in the anguish and uncertainty he felt.

“He’s in surgery right now, Byron, and it’s my call. Tell me why I shouldn’t go straight back down there and pull this particular plug?”

“Okay. Let’s not have this conversation out here.”

“Why not? Have you got something to hide? What are you people doing to him?”

Byron’s expression hardened.

“You know very well what we are doing, and so does Gordon. I don’t want the other patients disturbed, so if you don’t mind - ?” He gestured into Gordon’s room, and Virgil grudgingly obeyed.

Once inside and the door closed with the utter silence that had begun to assume a sinister edge in Virgil’s mind, Byron turned to him.

“So what’s changed since yesterday? You were there when Dr Brabazon told you about the procedure.”

“I’ve just finished a phone call with my father. He told me patients had died? That there were psychotic episodes? That definitely did not come up yesterday.”

“Ah. Okay.” Byron nodded, and the irritation died out of his eyes. “Yeah, one of the first tries at this procedure over on the east coast, there was a death. I don’t know all the details, but I do know the coronial inquest ruled it was due to an underlying congenital heart condition, and ever since the protocols of the procedure have been changed. Now every patient gets checked first, has an MRI of their heart prior to the implantation.”

“What about the psychosis?” If he was honest with himself, it was that word that frightened Virgil more than anything. Death was challenging, but ultimately an inevitable part of life; the idea of losing your mind, your personhood before it happened terrified him. 

“Same thing, I guess. Early days, and they kept the patient under the sleep activator too long.” At the question in Virgil’s eyes, Byron went on. “There isn’t a whole lot we can do to assist with pain relief. You’re talking palliative levels of medication to be truly effective, the kind of thing we do for terminal patients when the impact on their liver doesn’t really make any long term difference. So instead of drugging a patient into unconsciousness to give them sleep, they use a sleep activator to mimic the brain’s alpha wave patterns and induce sleep that way. Otherwise, the chance of the patient getting any kind of rest are just about zero.” His eyes tracked almost unconsciously to the gel bed that would soon be receiving Gordon’s body again, and Virgil’s gaze followed his. Without a patient in it the colours were dulled, the heat and motion stopped. It looked cool and slightly slick.

“And this sleep activator, it’s a problem?”

“It was.” Byron tightened his mouth, sympathetically. “The first people to try the sleep activator over in Chicago decided to keep the patient under almost permanently while the nerves healed, which made sense. Only problem was, the sleep activator can only approximate the brain wave patterns, and over time the brain reacted badly to the constant imposition of alpha waves that were just slightly wrong. Patients woke up with severe hallucinations, had difficulty re-establishing reality. So, again, we’ve adjusted the protocols after extensive research. Maximum of ten hours out of each twenty four under the sleep activator, no more.”

Everything he heard added to his sense of slow, queasy panic. The anger he’d felt before flared again, lacking any real target beyond the cruelly capricious fate that decided to destroy young men who dared to live a life less ordinary. Damn you, Gordon. Why didn’t you take the easy option?

Yeah, there’s a great idea. The easy option of a life onshore, studying in a lab, not an ocean. That easy option of a mobishield that would leave him dependent on an artificial shell, that would leave him mobile but unable to feel that mobility as anything but a mechanistic transport from one place to another when once he’d glided through water like a piece of nature, unleashed.

Gordon Tracy would never take the easy option. Hell, he’d never even taken the stairs at the farmhouse when climbing up the bannisters or the drainpipe was available, and forbidden. He’d chosen to push himself and go for the Olympics when regular state championships and instant adulation on campus were within his grasp.

So who was Virgil to tell him to aim for the ordinary? To hell with that.

To hell with that.

“You okay?” Byron was looking at him as though he thought Virgil might explode if handled incorrectly.

“Yeah. Okay. I’m okay.”

“Can I give you some advice? Don’t wait in here. Look, I can synch up your phone –“ and Byron reached for Virgil’s phone, tapped it to the nurse’s wristband he wore, then handed it back. “Now I can buzz you when there’s any news. Go, get fresh air. It’s a long day for the relatives.”

Virgil cleared his throat in preparation for a kind of apology, but Byron pre-empted him.

“It’s tough. This is going to be as hard on you as it is on him. You need to look after yourself, too.”

Virgil nodded.

“Can I stay in the room with him? I mean, sleep overnight?”

Byron shook his head. “We really don’t encourage it. He’ll be out of it, truly, and you’ll just be disturbed by the nurses checking in throughout. You’re staying at that nice hotel down the block near the beach? I’d keep that room, get some decent sleep at night. And trust me, you’ll find that walk a godsend each day.”

“Okay. Right. Fine.” Virgil sighed, then ran his hand through his hair. “Look, I have a question, and I’d appreciate your honesty.”

The look he got was a wary one, but Byron nodded.

“If – if it was your brother down there, having this thing put in his head. I mean, you’ve seen what they go through, these patients. Would you go for it?”

The nurse paid him the compliment of thinking the question through before replying.

“It would depend on my brother. If he was strong, and committed to it, then yes, I would. It’s going to be tough, it really is, but from what I’ve seen of him, I think Gordon is a good candidate. Don’t you?”

“Are you asking me if Gordon is stubborn enough to get through this? Oh, yeah.” Virgil felt a short burst of pride in his infuriating little brother, then stretched out his hand. “Thanks. Sorry I lost it.”

Byron shook his hand, but gave Virgil a wide smile. “Oh, believe me, you didn’t even register on the scale of relatives losing it.”

“You mean I have some more frustration in the bank I can use up later?”

“Feel free.” Byron opened the door to the room. “Now I have to get back to work. Why don’t you go for a wander? I’ll let you know the moment there’s anything to report.”

**** ****  
Virgil took his advice. As hard as it was to walk away from the hospital, it was harder still to wait cooped up in Gordon’s room, or to roam the corridors, getting in the way of patients and staff alike. 

He went for a jog, around and around the block so that he was never too far away in case his phone buzzed. Then after an hour of that he looked for a place to sit and wait it out. 

The block immediately opposite the hospital was almost full apartment buildings, in the midst of which was an old style Californian bungalow marked for demolition. Somehow its forlorn state drew Virgil to it, and he ducked past the billboard announcing the new development that was soon to be erected there in order to sit at the foot of one of the six palm trees that lined the site. In its shade he put his head back and stared up through its leaves, watching them sway in the morning breeze, dark against the brilliant blue of the L.A. sky.

Somewhere in his running or in the gentle susurration of the palm leaves he had found some kind of peace with his decision. He didn’t know if the decision was a good one; he didn’t feel hopeful, he didn’t feel confident or even safe; but he did understand, fundamentally, that he had done the only thing he could do, win or lose. Think it through, make a choice and stick to it, and that was Scott’s voice in his head. He’d done that, and now he just had to hope that he’d made the right call to trust his younger brother.

His phone burbled in his pocket. He knew without looking exactly who it would be, and sure enough, when he glanced at the screen it was his father’s face, looking as busy and as freakishly focused as he ever did.

“Virgil. What are the new plans for Gordon?”

His courage failing him, Virgil put off the inevitable.

“New plans?”

“When is he being fitted for the mobishield?”

And of course that prevarication was a move as pointless as ever. In fact, he didn’t even need to say anything. The pause in his response was enough for a man as astute as his father to put two and two together and reach rebellion.

“Am I reading this right, Virgil? You didn’t stop the surgery?”

Virgil swallowed, and decided he may as well man up now.

“No, Dad, I didn’t.”

His father’s jaw jutted in that way Virgil knew so well, the one that told everyone in the vicinity that Jeff Tracy was about to lay down the law, no argument tolerated.

“Then you go straight back there and tell them to take that damned thing out of his head. Now, before it does damage we can’t undo.”

“Dad, I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but he’s already pretty damaged. This might be his one hope.”

“Enough. Get it done.” The power of his father’s stare was incredible. The compulsion to do what he was told in order to ease that intensity was so strong that Virgil almost flinched backwards. 

“Dad, I – no, I can’t.”

“Of course you can.” His father’s eyes tracked to something he was reading, finished it, dismissed it, and looked back up to Virgil. “If there is any kind of resistance, just let them know they won’t be getting a cent from me unless they remove it. I guess that will be motivation enough to do what we want.”

“Dad, you’re not hearing me. Or I guess I’m not saying it clearly.” He took a deep breath, thought you owe me, Gordon, and said, firmly, “I won’t be doing that. This is Gordon’s decision. He wanted the surgery. I’ll be supporting him in that.”

That got his father’s full attention, and it was a desperately uncomfortable thing to have when the recipient of it was not doing what Jeff Tracy wanted. For a full ten seconds it appeared as though he was so astounded by Virgil’s refusal that he lacked the words to express it. Then, abruptly, he nodded.

“I see. You’re prepared to ignore my direct order and all the expert research that I have brought to bear on this. You are supporting Gordon in a foolish and dangerous decision he has made out of an immature inability to face up to his reality. Is this correct?”

Virgil breathed heavily, then shook his head.

“No, I am supporting my brother in a brave decision that he has made after careful consideration and full awareness of what it might cost him.”

The snort from his father was telling. “And when I withdraw payment for it?”

“I guess I’ll have a few years of working hard to cover it.” 

Suddenly, Virgil realised that he was going toe to toe with his old man about something he was deeply unsure of himself. He only knew that he was Gordon’s last line of defence here, and he was prepared to hold it, come what may. His father must have sensed something of that in his face, because after another pause he disengaged with the stare-off.

“So be it. I’m disappointed in you, Virgil. I expect this kind of foolishness from Gordon, but I trusted you.”

“You can trust me to look after my little brother, sir.”

Another long, hard stare, then his father nodded once and the screen went blank.

Virgil blew out his breath. The tree continued swaying gently above him, the traffic glided past, and he felt as though one of those famous Californian seismic tremors had just gone through him and left everything teetering in its wake.

Bridges well and truly burned, he thought. Now it’s up to you, Gordo.


	5. Chapter 5: Day One

Chapter 5. Day One

“You asshole.”

“Hello to you, too.”

Gordon woke only briefly post-operation, and the nursing staff said he was likely to stay asleep until mid- morning the next day. Virgil had gone back to the hotel for the night and had left it at 0700 to be there when Gordon woke, but he must have timed his arrival wrongly, because Gordon was already wide awake. His newly shaved head looked raw, the flesh around the sleep activator unit puffy and purple with bruising. But he was grinning, and Virgil could tell by the way his eyes never moved that he’d been watching the door for his coming. 

Virgil dumped his day-pack by Gordon’s bed and then put his hands in his pockets, trying to maintain a scowl in the face of his brother’s cheerfulness.

“You didn’t bother mentioning to me that Dad had put his foot down.”

“Oh.” Gordon’s eyes widened slightly, then blinked quickly. It was as close to bashful as he could make it.

“Yes, ‘oh’, and by the way, the cutesy look stopped working for you about ten years ago. I took a bullet for you.”

“He was pissed.”

“Oh, way beyond pissed.” Virgil kicked his bag aside and sat in the bedside chair. “I think I may just have disinherited myself.”

“Yeah, well. They say getting reamed out by Jeff Tracy is as good as an adventure holiday. All that adrenalin. The relief when it stops.”

Virgil’s eyes narrowed. He would appreciate the barest hint of real remorse.

“And all that crap about wanting a sex life.”

“Oh, hey now. That was true.” Gordon always did have a nice line in injured innocence.

“Maybe. It was also designed to get me thinking about not discussing it with Dad. Sex life. Ha.”

“Hey, I get it, Virgil. You’re old. You’re ancient. Sex doesn’t matter to you anymore. The only person who’s gonna be rummaging in your ruins is an archaeologist.”

“Don’t say words you can’t spell,” Virgil said.

“You need geo-phys to find your nuts.”

“Says the guy who’s never used his.”

“You know what? With my new spine, I’m going to be unstoppable. I can go forever. The ladies are gonna be lining up. Love you long time.”

Against his every intention, Virgil gave a huff of laughter.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“But I want to be corriged. Daily.”

“Shut up.”

“Lots of corrige. On the beach corrige. In the pool corrige. On your bed corrige.”

“You know, I could smother you with a pillow right now and they’d never prove a thing.”

“Aw, Virgil. You love me really.”

Virgil allowed his face to grow serious.

“Yeah, I do actually. And you put me through shit.”

At last, the tap dancing stopped. “I’m sorry.” Gordon’s eyes flickered away to the wall screen, a sure sign that he was feeling something he didn’t want Virgil to see. “I didn’t mean to get you in trouble. I was just – doing whatever I could to take this chance. I’m not sorry I went ahead with it, but I am sorry for the collateral damage. Did he leave anything intact?” Virgil grunted. “Hey, if it’s any consolation, I think you’re going to get eighteen days of watching me get my ass kicked. You could film it, take it back to the hotel, drop a bourbon, sit back and watch the highlights each night.”

“You know, you’re right. I am beyond consoled.”

“Mmm. The Gordon Channel. Twenty four hours of watching a jerk-off getting his comeuppance. Oh, and digital bowel stimulation on the premium package for the discerning viewer.”

“You’re not a jerk-off, Gordon.” Virgil paused, then gestured to Gordon’s hands. “I mean, you can’t, obviously.”

Gordon gasped in mock horror.

“Ohh, you went there.”

“I did. I have no regrets.”

“You’re mocking a cripple.”

“A cripple who manipulated me.” He grew serious again. “No more, okay? We’ve got to be straight with each other, here. No more BS. You tell me honestly how things are for you, every day.”

Gordon swallowed, and the grin on his face became a little less natural. 

“I don’t get to play the suffering in silence card?”

Virgil shook his head.

“The noble look is just something you cannot pull off.”

“Again with the masturbation references. Can you just stop?”

A short laugh, and then Virgil leant forward, his eyes warm.

“So how are you doing this morning, kiddo?”

“Honesty, huh?”

“Yeah.” It was Virgil’s turn to grin. “A new concept. Try it out, take it for a spin, see if you like it.”

Gordon screwed up his face in a parody of deep thought, and even as he did so Virgil noticed the tightness in his jaw.

“Well, okay. It feels like ants. Hyper ants. Ants on acid. Hey, cool band name.”

“Uh-huh. And these ants are - ?”

“The Ants That Ate LA.” At Virgil’s eyebrow lift, Gordon sighed. “All over my head. It feels kinda funky, like a thousand little feet running over my face and down my neck.”

Virgil frowned, but Gordon didn’t seem too distressed.

“So – ants we can deal with?”

“Ants we can so deal with. I am all over the ants.” He paused. “That was meant to sound more badass than it did.”

“Yeah, okay, tough guy.”

“Hey, Virge? Promise me – “ Gordon paused, frowning, then looked away at the window. “Don’t let me wuss out on this, will you?”

Virgil crossed his arms.

“Define your terms. I’m promising what now?”

“That if – if it gets tough, don’t just let me wimp out early. You kick my butt. Hard. Okay?”

“Gordo, it always gives me great pleasure to kick your butt. You don’t have to ask.”

“No, but I do. With this.” Gordon brought his eyes to meet Virgil’s. “Promise me.”

And that was a poisoned chalice if ever he knew one, but the look in his brother’s eyes captured him again. He figured that being supporter in chief constituted a certain amount of spine-stiffening. It did cross his mind that the job was likely to have more than a few hidden costs to it.

“I promise. My foot, your butt, as and when needed. Okay. So.” Virgil clapped his hands together. “Movie?”

“Movie,” Gordon confirmed. “Your choice, since I think I kinda owe you one.”

“You so do,” murmured Virgil, as he used the remote to bring up the movie menu.

“He was really mad?”

“Mmm.”

“Like, remove funding mad?”

Gordon’s voice had lost some of its ebullience, and Virgil glanced at him.

“Don’t worry about the money, Gordo. Dad’ll come around. And if he doesn’t, we’ve got you covered. There’s my trust fund from Mom, for starters.”

“I’m not worried,” Gordon said. He watched the menu, not looking at Virgil. “And I won’t drag you guys down with me. I’ll be able to work after this. I’ll pay the bills.”

It’s an argument for another day, Virgil thought as he called up a movie, some space action thing he’d never got around to seeing. But in the face of his own worry he found his brother’s optimism heartening. First day post-op, and things were starting to look a little better. They’d established some ground rules and Gordon wasn’t in too much pain. Honesty was the go to word. Ants they could deal with.

For the moment, things were as good as they could hope.

Of course, by evening, the ants were biting.


	6. Chapter 6: Day Two

“Mind if I adjust the blinds a bit?”

“Sure.” Virgil frowned. “Sun a bit bright?” The day was actually overcast, the sky a uniform gray.

Gordon kept his voice light. “Yeah. It’s a drag, huh? Just ocular nerves, doing their thang, but I wish they’d turn it down to 11.” He stared at a symbol on the wall-screen and gradually the windows became more heavily tinted. The room grew darker.

Today, Virgil could see the effort it was taking for Gordon to speak steadily. The muscles in his cheeks twitched almost constantly, and he frequently squeezed his eyes closed, as if shutting in the pain could somehow discourage it.

“Day two, huh. You’re doing well, Gordo.”

“You talk to anyone last night?”

“Got through to Alan. He sends a rude gesture which I refuse to pass on.”

A tight but genuine grin from Gordon.

“Tell him back at him. With tongue.”

“I really don’t want to know.”

A sudden gasp, and then Gordon bit down, hard. Virgil made a brief motion toward getting up, but Gordon slightly shook his head, signalling he didn’t want anything. After a short while he blew his breath out, and began speaking again, in a transparent attempt to deflect from what Virgil had so obviously witnessed.

“I miss them. There were so many people here at the start.”

Virgil shifted in his seat.

“You know they’d all be here if they could.”

“Oh, hell yeah. And I don’t really want them here, to tell you the truth. It kinda sucks to be the centre of attention and not in a good way.”

“Yeah,” said Virgil. “I know what you mean.”

“It helps more knowing they’re out there being fabulous. Scotty single-handedly winning the war, Johnny in space. Alan annoying Grandma.”

“Playing to their strengths.” Something clamoured for Virgil’s attention in the back of his mind, and he frowned as he wondered what it was.

“Yeah.” Gordon blinked and bit down again, clearly trying to stop his jaw from shaking. “I remember when I first woke up – or, at least, when I first woke up enough to realise what the hell was going on. Was really weird, you know? One minute I was doing pre-checks for the speed trial, the next I was in a strange room, and Jeff was on the phone, you and Johnny were sitting over there, heads together,” – a pause, as he sucked in another breath while pretending it wasn’t a gasp – “heads together, looking at some kind of schematics, and Alan was doing schoolwork at the table while Grandma was telling Lainey and Brewster something about tornadoes? I think.”

Another sharp breath, another pause. “Oh, and Scott was doing push ups against the seat over there. It was crazy. And the craziest thing was I was so still, right in the middle of it all.” He screwed his face up briefly. “Kinda like I was this great big clam, stuck on the seabed, and you were all the fishes swimming around me, all this movement and colour and there I was, just- stuck. You know, when I imagined myself as a creature in the sea, it was always a dolphin, or maybe sea otter. Guess I shoulda aimed for something a bit more sedentary, right?”

Virgil looked down at his own hands, clasped together to stop him from reaching for Gordon when he so obviously didn’t want that.

“I guess a clam is never going to be an action figure.”

“Ha. You got that right. Did I ever tell you about the huge one I saw off San Nicolas? Must have been about five feet wide. Coulda swallowed the bathyscaphe, I swear.”

“You must have seen some amazing things down there.”

Gordon swallowed a wince as a muscle in his neck jumped and twitched again. “Yeah. I remember I saw a grouper off the coast of Queensland that reminded me of Jeff on one of his bad days.”

“Why do you call him Jeff now?” It had been bothering Virgil for a while, but he surprised himself by blurting it out. He could tell Gordon was surprised, too.

“Because it’s his name?”

“Come on, man. He’s still your father.”

“Oh, wow, I coulda sworn you were there for that whole big reveal. Wait, let me catch you up on the latest doings of the soap opera that is Tracy Family Life.”

“That’s bullshit, Gords.” He kept his voice firm, but gentle. “You know that man has been your father for your whole life. You think that’s going to change now?”

“Hate to tell you, Polly-bloody-anna, but it already has.”

Virgil sat back, arms crossed.

“Okay. Apart from the guy being here twenty-four seven for the first three weeks after you got smushed, and insisting on the best possible care for you, and making sure someone was always here for you and making arrangements for you in every way I can think of – explain how he is no longer thinking like your father?”

“I don’t know. Maybe the way he won’t meet my eyes? Like, ever?”

“Dad? That Jeff Tracy? Bullshit,” said Virgil again. “Come on, bro. That man has never backed down from anyone, not once in his entire life. Remember when he stared down President Wycliffe? I thought that woman could freeze metal with her glare, and Dad had her running for cover in five minutes.”

“Yeah. Why don’t you ask Alan if you don’t believe me? He wouldn’t look at me, not properly, not once. Like – like he was ashamed of me. What an embarrassment, right, a crippled Tracy.”

“Gordon?”

“Fine.” Gordon sounded bitter, and it seemed so wrong coming from a kid brother usually defined by his sunniness. “You know best. I mean, you haven’t been here and you didn’t see it, but sure. Whatever.”

“Gordon!”

“What?” A full on teenaged snarl now, rare but potent when it did appear, and Virgil didn’t care. He realised he was grinning like an idiot.

“You shook your head.”

“What?” Startled, Gordon’s eyes grew huge. “What? When?”

“Before. Just – try it. Try moving your head.”

“I can’t,” Gordon huffed, but he frowned, his focus all inwards, mouth open; and after several moments, a period when Virgil forgot to breathe and Gordon did nothing but, and heavily, his head gave a sudden jerk to the left. 

“Holy shit! Holy shit, Virge!”

Then, together in perfect synchronisation, “It’s working!”

Virgil gave the kind of cowboy whoop he thought he’d left behind in his own teenage years, loud enough that it almost covered Gordon’s laughing “Ow!” as the neck muscles caught and cramped.

“Oh, man, that really hurts. But I did it. It’s working, Virge, it’s going to work.”

Virgil grabbed his phone, so excited he mistakenly brought up Grand Falls Trekking instead of Grandma then overcompensated to land on Henry’s Autos in Denver. At last he had his grandmother’s face on screen, and she smiled at him with surprised delight.

“Hello there, Virgil. You caught me in the garden. Didn’t expect you to call until Alan was home.” Her expression changed to one of concern. “Is everything alright?”

Virgil grinned. “Guess you should ask Gordon, Grandma. Has he got news for you.”


	7. Chapter 7: Day Three

By noon on day three Virgil was aware that he had lost track of time. Earlier that morning, Gordon had used the eye tracking tech and the wall screen options to put a colour filter across the windows. It diffused the light coming through into a soft blue shade, and gave the room the ambience of an underwater cave. It was undeniably restful and soothing, but Virgil couldn’t help wondering if the uniformity of light made it difficult to get a sense of the passage of time. Even to him the feeling that they had been here together in this unchanging twilit world with Gordon grinding his teeth in pain while he hovered helplessly seemed to have gone on for hours longer than it feasibly had. And for Gordon himself, there might be no awareness that he was actually making headway against the clock.

“Hey, Gordo. You know what time it is?”

“Don’t know.” Gordon’s voice was low, extruded through a throat tight with agony.

“Care to guess?”

“Oh, fu – don’t know. Ten.”

“Nope. Coming up on noon. You’re halfway through day three.” That was an exaggeration; the sleep activator would be applied at 2000 hours, another eight hours away, and Gordon had suffered through six. But psychologically noon was the magic mark, and he could see his brother’s face lighten briefly with the knowledge. 

“Mmm.” Gordon’s nostrils flared as he breathed deeply, working to keep the pain under his control.

“You want me to read some more?”

A slight shake of the head. Every time Gordon moved something voluntarily it gave Virgil a brief shot of hope.

“Tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Tell me a secret.”

“Okay.” He might have guessed his brother’s busy brain needed something more tangible to focus on. “Uh- work secrets? Family secrets?” The slightest of nods. “Alright. I can tell you mine, at least.”

“No.” 

Virgil did a slight double-take. Gordon opened his eyes, blinking involuntarily against the light.

“Know yours.”

He laughed lightly. “Yeah, I don’t know about that. I guess I’ve got a few secrets you don’t know about.”

“D – doubt it.”

“Okay, smart guy. Did you know I kept an i-journal in – “

“The planter base on the back porch.” Gordon closed his eyes again. “Read it.”

“You what?”

A groan that could have been engendered by the state of his body or the state of his brother’s secret life. “Soooo lame.”

“You read it?”

“When I could stay awake – long enough.”

“You read my journal?”

“Oh, god, yes. Get over it.”

“No, dammit.” Virgil found himself caught between annoyance and embarrassment, both of them being somewhat curtailed by the fact that the source of each one was currently in the thrall of powerful pain. “I can’t believe you ignored my privacy like that.”

“Relax. N- nothing in there.”

And that was somehow worse – that his brother had read his innermost thoughts and considered there was nothing of interest to be found.

It was rare for Virgil to lose his temper, and he wasn’t about to indulge it now with his brother in pain the way he was; but he figured a few minutes of silent fuming was in order. After a short while, Gordon opened one eye again, and there was nothing but mischievous glee in its amber depths.

“S’how I knew to deadbolt the door. That Saturday you snuck out?”

“The night of the Coniston County Ball?” Virgil sat back, mouth open in almost comic horror. “Do you know how angry Dad was about that one?”

“Alan and me. Upstairs. Listening as he bawled you out.”

Bemused, Virgil spread his hands. “Why? Why would you do that?”

“Dunno. Young and bored. Stupid.” Gordon gave a rueful smile of apology. “Felt sorry about it. Made it up to you.”

“You did, huh?”

“Yeah. You wanted – wanted to go out with Selena Mc – McCribbin?”

Virgil nodded his head, warily.

“In your lame-ass journal. Fixed it for you.”

He folded his arms, waiting. Gordon saw his posture and managed a kind of breathless giggle.

“Ever wonder why that – that big jerk she was hanging around with – got banned from the prom?”

“He was caught doing doughnuts in the church yard. How is that anything to do with you?”

But the conversation was over, for the minute, as a wave of agony swept Gordon back into a place where communication of any kind was limited to a wordless groan deep in his throat. Virgil immediately sat forward and reached for the cold cloth that he used to wipe Gordon’s brow as the sweat began to bead there again. This time however when he touched it to Gordon’s head his brother gave a cry and tried to jerk away.

“Don’t! S - sandpaper.”

Of all the ways that Virgil had tried to imagine what Gordon was going through it was this single moment that told him the most. The wipe in his hand was as soft as modern technology could render cloth, and to Gordon it felt as though he were dragging sandpaper across his face.

It was almost five minutes later before Gordon was back with him, mentally. In that time Virgil got up from where he was seated and strode over to the window, waiting, helpless as Gordon fought his own battle alone. This was the template for all the days to come, he knew. This sense of uselessness would be his own demon to fight, and it was not something his can-do nature welcomed. Whatever anyone had to say about Jeff Tracy’s parenting methods, each of his boys had developed a strong sense of wanting to help others, fix problems, and not being shy about jumping in and doing just that. To find himself helpless to assist, bound and tied by circumstance was something that Virgil would always struggle with; to know that his touch brought torture was a particular kind of horror.

“Chris Chatsworth.”

“Yeah, that was him.” Virgil took his time turning around. Keeping it cool. No fussing. “He was such a jackass. I couldn’t believe Selena didn’t see it.”

“Football captain. Greek trumps geek.”

“I guess.” He came back over to the bed. “So what did you do?”

“Hacked into his commlink, convinced him it was his douchebro friend Corey. S-same to Corey. Invited - invited each other to the churchyard for some blowouts.”

“And then alerted the teachers?”

“Teachers, police. Mayor. Reverend Musgeeweti. Once I knew Chris was there and had started.”

“Wow.” He found himself almost impressed by the sheer audacity and effectiveness of that particular prank. “You were the instrument of revenge that brought down the biggest bullies at the school.”

“Cleared your path.”

“You did at that.” Virgil chuckled. “Of course, she still didn’t go with me.”

“Lame,” Gordon breathed. “So very lame.”

As Virgil watched, Gordon’s left hand began spasming violently on the bed, fingers cramping inwards.

“Gordon!”

“I know, I know!” A grin that was little more than a baring of his teeth, but that couldn’t hide the joy that suffused Gordon’s face. “I can feel it.”

“You’ve got your left hand back!” 

“Oh, man.” A feeble whoop. “Oh, god, Virge, I’ve got a hand!”

It was astonishing how overwhelmed Virgil felt in that moment. He knew they shared the understanding of what this meant; a hand was everything. It was a key level of independence. The use of a hand meant the use of tools, washing, feeding, a handshake, a caress – it was agency, it was empowering, and it was Gordon’s. 

“You did it, bro.” He wanted to grab that hand, hold on to celebrate the fact he could, but he was all too conscious of the fact that although it was moving, each uncontrolled jerk of movement was a throb of agony into Gordon’s brain.

“Jus – just the start. You watch.”

Unfortunately, thought Virgil, that’s just about all I can do.

That night in the hotel room, he took his father’s call with renewed hope, despite the tiredness that was beginning to drag at his limbs.

“Virgil. How is he doing?”

“Hi Dad. Yeah, he’s doing well. He can roll his head, and today he got movement and feeling in one shoulder, and his left hand.”

“His left hand?” And for a brief moment there, his dad looked twenty years younger. “That’s excellent. Good news, son.”

“Yeah, we’re pretty excited. It means a lot.”

“Of course. Well… I am pleased your decision hasn’t cost your brother more than any of us would ever want him to pay.”

“Yeah,” Virgil said, drily. “You know, if you ever wanted to share that unbridled enthusiasm with him directly, you can ring through to his room.”

Those eyes he knew so well flickered to the side.

“I’m busy most hours of the day. This committee –“

“First thing in the lunch break there, Dad, you could call through. He’d be awake.”

There was a pause, while Jeff Tracy looked at anything other than his son’s face.

“Yes. Well.” He cleared his throat. “I’m not sure that – ah, that he would welcome that.”

“Dad, I think he really, really would.”

Jeff cleared his throat again. 

“Virgil, you weren’t there in those first few weeks. He made it reasonably clear that he didn’t want anything to do with me.”

“Dad – “

“Now, I don’t blame him. Just something we’ve got to – ah, work through.”

“You’re like two teenagers circling around asking to go to the prom.”

“Time,” Jeff said with a sternness Virgil couldn’t help feel was affected. “He needs time. I don’t want you to think I blame your brother. He’s got enough on his plate now, anyway.” He made a circling motion with his hand. “Once this is over and we see how he is, we can sit down, have a talk about how he will fit in.”

“How will he fit in? Same as he always has, Dad. He’s our brother and your son.”

“Yes. Yes, of course. I just meant - going forward.”

“Going forward,” Virgil said heavily.

“Yes. Well, get some sleep. You look tired, son. Take care of yourself.”

The comm-unit closed down, and Virgil was left sitting on his bed, shaking his head slightly. ‘Going forward’ was the kind of mealy-mouthed line that Jeff Tracy usually despised, but that wasn’t what reverberated in Virgil’s mind. All his consternation was focused on the fact his father could suggest that Gordon’s place was something needing any kind of discussion. Unconsciously his eyes strayed to his left, where his hand lay on the bedspread, holding the comm-unit, and he heard himself speaking aloud to the empty room and his distant father.

“Right there, Dad.” He curled his fingers tight on the comm-unit, as if that made some kind of point. “That’s where Gordon fits in. Right by my side.”


	8. Chapter 8: Day 4

“Whoa.”

Virgil, like John, prided himself on a certain level of unflappability. It went well with his tendency to be the calmest one in the room anyway. But coming into Gordon’s hospital room first thing on Day 4 and finding his brother stark naked would, he’d argue, startle the hell out of anyone.

And because it was Gordon, and because he knew he’d just thrown his big brother for a loop, the one thing he was wearing was a big, shit-eating grin.

“You gonna take a photo, Virge? Send it to Grandma?”

“She’d just put it on the fridge,” said Virgil. He gestured to the distinct lack of pyjamas, and as he did so he noticed that the temperature in the room had been raised by several degrees. “That light over your bed can be bright, but it’s not a sunbed you know, Gordo.”

“Nah.” Gordon’s hand continued to spasm as he glanced down the length of his body. The duro-bend plastic and titanium compound that now made up much of his skeleton was also attached to his chest in strips, connected to an electrical unit that lifted and compressed each rib, mimicking the natural movement of his diaphragm and allowing him to breathe. The strips were the only things left on him. A tray with slightly opaque plastic flaps on either side was suspended above his hips, preserving some element of his modesty. “The pjs got too scratchy. Must have made them out of steel wool.”

It was a measure of his brother’s heightened sensitivity to touch that the soft flannel pyjamas could ever be described in that way.

“Oh, and Virgil, ignore the winking.” Now that he looked, Virgil could see that Gordon’s left eyelid was involuntarily doing just that at him. “I’m really not – not aiming that at you. Specially now – that I’m stripped for action.”

“Good to know.” Now that Gordon’s chest and legs were naked, Virgil could see where the surgery had carved into them in order to salvage a body that had been virtually shredded. Already the high tech replacement flesh was blending with the body he’d been born with, a thin sliver of white the only sign of the joining. But he could still follow the crazy contours of the injuries and the treatment, and for a moment, nausea flooded his stomach so abruptly that Virgil thought he would be sick. He turned his head rapidly to hide his reaction from Gordon, swallowing.

“I brought the piano today.” Virgil covered the movement by easing the slim case from his jacket. When he looked back at his brother he could see where the flesh on his chest twitched and shuddered in a way that reminded Virgil of a horse bothered by a botfly. “Thought you might like some tunes?"

Gordon nodded briefly, overcome once more. Every encounter with him was like this; a brief respite where conversation was possible, a gradual or sudden loss of breath and voice control as the nerves gripped and sparked under his skin. They’d long moved past the stage of apologies for interruptions to their chat.

“Okay. I’ll set up here, on the table. Any requests?” At Gordon’s continued silence, Virgil just nodded to himself as he opened up the case and pulled out the slim apparatus that was his portable piano. It was no more than five inches by four, and an inch thick, but it unfolded out into a full, translucent piano keyboard. “I’ll set it at something less than the grand in here. And I’ll dim the light effects.” He clicked it into place then ran his fingers lovingly across the keys, eliciting a gentle sound and a soft light display, ten inches above and forward of the keyboard.

For Virgil, music and colour had always been connected. When he described what he saw and felt to John, he discovered there was a word for a mind like his, one that saw colour swirling in each note, patterns coalescing in each melody line. He embraced his synaesthesia. It was a special mark of difference between himself and his brothers that he could claim for his own, and it meant he had very strong opinions about the colours that should be generated by each piece of music he played. Now as he sat beside Gordon’s bed and began to touch the keys, the colours he had chosen for this piece flowed outward in responsive patterns according to the music; plum red, moss green, a soft grey shot with silver.

“Bach.”

“Yep.” He allowed the rolling tones of Prelude and Fugue in D minor to flow through the piano, and suddenly smiled. 

“You remember the first time you heard Bach? What you said?”

“It’s crunchy.”

“’And it comes in waves.’” In Virgil’s mind came the memory of a tow-headed eight year old boy, usually so active and impetuous, standing transfixed outside the library at the farm as his brother practiced for his upcoming exams. “You always did get Bach. Confused the hell out of the teachers at school, when you’d ask for some of his stuff at recess instead of the latest rock anthem.”

He played softly for a while, then repeated, “Any requests?”

“Namkuhng.”

“Ahhh. Okay.” The Korean composer from the 2040s had a style that combined traditional Korean pansori music with popular western composers, all infused with a cueca feel from Chile. It made for an extraordinary sound that Virgil could only approximate on his piano, but he knew Gordon loved it and so he did his best. The colour for Namkuhng was always bright orange, gold, aquamarine. Gordon closed his eyes as the brightness danced across his face, hiding the gray, smoothing the scars. After a while Virgil moved on to modern swing jazz, but slowed in tempo, becoming more of a lilting sway that brought a lightness to Gordon’s face even as his mouth clenched in agony again.

“Hey, Virgil?"

“Yep?”

“You hear from Jeff at all?”

“He rings every night. Checks how you are.”

There was a pause. 

“You think he’ll – will he be in SoCal at all, you think? Any time soon?”

Virgil glanced over at him.

“He’s got that senate committee thing for this week, at least.”

“Oh. Yeah. Right.”

A longer pause, as the music swung gently around them.

“Hey, Virgil?”

“Mm-mm?”

“Remember the Argonauts?”

“Huh.” Virgil changed the music to a livelier rhythm. “That series you watched when you two were kids?”

“And you. You aren’t that much older.”

“Yeah, okay. I remember it.”

“Think my superpower genes will kick in? Remember how they were all in that decompression accident and it turned them into superheroes?”

Virgil laughed.

“So – what? You’re going to be Moist Man? Captain Clam with his amazing snap? Squid Boy with his famous squid sense?”

A small laugh, and Virgil felt glad to hear it. These moments were all he could give Gordon now.

“Okay, yeah, I’ll take that. Put that as the caption to the picture you send to Grandma.”

“I am not sending Grandma naked pics of you.”

“So mean. So very mean.”  
 


	9. Chapter 9: Day 6

Byron beckoned Virgil as he left Gordon’s room a little after midday.

“Hi, Byron. Just heading down to grab some lunch. Won’t be long,” Virgil promised. 

“Yeah, that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Could you maybe take your time?”

That caught Virgil mid step, and he frowned slightly in confusion.

“Stay down there longer?” At Byron’s nod, Virgil thought he understood. “Oh, don’t worry about me. I don’t need a longer break. It’s fine. I don’t like to leave him alone too long.”

Byron shook his head.

“That’s not – Virgil, look, you’re doing a great job. You really are.”

“Okay?”

“This isn’t about you, you have to know that.”

Virgil felt a twinge of impatience. “What are you talking about, Byron?”

Another beckon, this time to join him around the other side of the nurses’ station. When Virgil moved to stand alongside the nurse, Byron put a hand briefly on his shoulder.

“This isn’t about you,” he said again. “Let me adjust the volume here.”

In front of them was a bank of screens, each one showing a patient, with precise and extensive diagnostic feeds against each image. At a glance a nurse could monitor every patient in the ward from this central position. Virgil watched as the image of Gordon was enlarged, and sound from the room was brought up. He had a brief moment of unease about the sense he had of people spying on his brother, and then dismissed that as irrational in a context that demanded close supervision.

At first, all they could hear was Gordon’s breathing, stertorous in the silence. After a full minute of this, Virgil turned a questioning look towards Byron, who put up a finger in a gesture of ‘wait’.

Then, almost inaudible to begin with, he heard it. A stream of swearing, repeated over and over again, sometimes the same word, sometimes a range of inventive obscenities, and as he listened the volume grew louder until it became a scream of rage and despair. It went on, unchecked, even when it was obvious he could barely breathe through it, even when the words were lost in something like the bastard child of a snarl and a sob.

“It’s alright,” he heard Byron murmur in his ear, and he realised he was clutching at the edge of the bank of screens, his knuckles white.

“That…” His throat was too tight to speak for a long moment, and Byron just continued to grip his shoulder in comfort. “What – why is he doing that?”

“It helps. Vocalising the pain is a helpful thing to do at times.”

“No, I mean – why didn’t he tell me?”

Byron just looked at him, and as the realisations hit Virgil felt like knuckling his own head in self-remonstrance. 

Of course he wouldn’t tell Virgil. He waited until Virgil left to get lunch before he released the demons that were tormenting him so that Virgil wouldn’t have to witness it. Out of kindness? Respect for The Code? Gordon Cooper Tracy was being a good little soldier just like Jeff Tracy raised him, biting down on pain, letting through the occasional groan, when what he really wanted to do was roar his anger and fear and agony to the heavens.

Helplessly, Virgil said, “I should – “

Another shoulder squeeze. “You should go get your lunch, and then maybe take a walk. By the time you get back, he’ll have it out of his system. I always get the feeling he’s got more to let out than he has time for when you hurry.”

Virgil kept staring at the screen, at the way his brother used his one good hand to beat feebly against the bed, his face unrecognisable from the grimly stoic one that had just farewelled him. The desire to join in the howling chorus, to hit something again and again until bruises grew and blood flew was strong. And all he could do was stand and watch, shaken, horrified, useless.

“Go on,” Byron said, gripping and then releasing his shoulder. “You’re doing a good job, Virgil, really. This is okay. It’s normal. In fact, it’s downright healthy. Now why don’t you go get your lunch, hmm?”

As if he could eat now. Byron nodded, as if Virgil had spoken aloud.

“You know, if you ever feel like doing some of that – “ he motioned towards the screen with his head “- there’s a room on this floor for relatives and friends to use. I could get you some quality time alone if you’d like.”

The possibility hung there for a second, then Virgil gave a short shake of his head. “I’m fine. Thanks.”

“Hmm. Your dad raised you boys tough. I get it.” Byron reached over and turned the sound down. “Offer stands.” 

“Thanks,“ Virgil repeated, trying to mean it. He left to make his way down to the well-appointed cafeteria, paid for by all the well-heeled patients, to stand in line for a delicious meal, before sitting with it in the expensively tasteful chair at the expensively tasteful table by the artfully designed window while all he really wanted to do was throw everything in the room through that same window as he yelled, “No more!”

He didn’t know who he was angry at. Not Gordon. That poor kid, hiding from Virgil, going it alone when his brother was less than two feet away. The thought that he’d probably been hanging out for Virgil to leave each day burned in him. His father? Jeff Tracy, thousands of miles away, checking in each night with him to make sure progress was being achieved, despite the fact he’d tried so hard to block its source. It was easy to feel anger at him, for instilling The Code in each of them so thoroughly. The one that insisted a Tracy would deal with pain and failure in the same way, by pushing through it and moving past it as if it didn’t exist.

Maybe WASP, for their shitty experimental hydrofoil testing, for choosing a guy with eleven months’ experience to be in the team on board. Where were they now, when that hydrofoil and the promising young lieutenant in it were both reduced to wrecks? They’d probably spent weeks and millions salvaging the one, while sending a weekly get well message to the other.

Himself? Oh, there was a cause he could get behind. He must have missed a hundred cues from his little brother. All the time he’d been thinking how right he was to be beside Gordon’s bed through this when Gordon was wishing him anywhere but.

Abruptly he pushed the meal away and left the cafeteria, stepping into shockingly bright sunlight outside. His eyes had grown used to the dimness of Gordon’s room. In the morning and the evening when he walked home, the light was soft. This noonday assault on his eyes had him scrabbling for sunglasses and blinking to acclimatise.

If ever he wished for his brothers, it was now. He wanted, desperately, to have Scott on the phone, giving him direction and determination and always, always having everybody’s back. He wanted John’s unique take on the world, the one rooted in kindness but skewed by an intelligence that saw things in a way no one else did, a way that so often showed Virgil to his. He wanted Alan’s uncomplicated approach to life, brimful of enthusiasm and careless of obstacles.

He wanted Grandma. That woman was indomitable. She’d take one look at him, one look at Gordon, and roll up her sleeves to fix them both with that combination of salty truth and sweet gentleness that had lifted him up all his life.

And he wanted his dad – not the CEO, not the trailblazer, the one who held all that kindness in check as if it was a weakness; but the one who let it out when it was really needed. The one who sat with him on the darkest nights of his life, quietly there, a rock amongst a shifting morass.

Alone on a scorched LA pavement, Virgil lifted his phone and spoke his dad’s name. The colors shifted, a faint burring sound, then the whiteness of the screen told him the call could not be connected. It was unsurprising. What was surprising was the level of sudden, acute disappointment he felt. As if his need was powerful enough to signal to his father that his sons needed rescuing.

Well. Just him then. 

He wasn’t enough. He knew that now. But he was all Gordon had, and the thought skewered Virgil as he stood there, fixing him in place under the harsh sun.

There was no time for indulging in wishing for anything to be other than what it was. 

Him and Gordon. They might both be struggling, they might be sinking, but they were sinking together. If that was all he could do for his brother – and he suspected it was – then that’s what he’d do. 

But it seemed such a long way down. And, in the heat of the LA noon, it seemed so very cold.


	10. Chapter 10: Day 8

Gordon came sliding into the room on his knees, mouth wide with joy, his hair still wet with snow, arms outstretched.

“And he makes it! Gordon Tracy makes it home, and the crowd – wait for it, Virgil – the crowd – what do they do, Virgil? Oh yes, oh yes, the crowd goes wiiiillllddd!”

Virgil laughed. 

“You idiot. Get up before Grandma sees you.”

“Before Grandma sees what?” came a stern voice from the kitchen, and Gordon gave a comic shriek.

“Hide me!” He scrambled behind Virgil’s chair.

“One good reason,” said Virgil.

“Um – because Alan’s gonna be in here in about five seconds and Grandma can blame him for the snow on the floor?”

“You know selling out your brother’s not really any kind of basis for negotiation.”

“It’s not? Huh.” Gordon shook his head. “Boy, have I been getting it wrong all these years.”

“Get up. I’m not saving you.”

“I know. Worth a shot though, wasn’t it?” Gordon clambered up from behind Virgil’s legs. Then he kept going, in a kind of slow motion cat crawl, onto the table, over Virgil’s homework, then up the wall to float into the corner of the ceiling.

“Of course! That’s it! Gordon, we don’t have to worry anymore! You can float everywhere.” Virgil smacked his own forehead. “How could I forget that?”

“I dunno, bro,” said Gordon, but the ceiling was far away now, and Virgil felt a twinge of anxiety.

“Don’t go too far,” he called, but even his concern for Gordon getting smaller and smaller in the distance was trumped by his relief that he wouldn’t have to see Gordon stuck in a bed any longer. Floating was the answer. Why had he missed that?

He chuckled, and the sound woke him up, abruptly.

His neck was badly cricked, and there was drool out the corner of his mouth. The light was blue, the room was warm, and his brother was vomiting with pain in front of him as Jacinta steadied his head and wiped his mouth.

“Oh. Hell.” Virgil blinked hard, struggling to come back from the memory of that long gone snowy day, back when Gordon flung his body about the planet like the world was made of rubber and he wanted to see how high he could bounce.

“S’okay,” Gordon croaked. His ribcage was bruised and swollen, but the duro-bend strips were gone; he was breathing on his own, since this morning. “You seemed like you could use the sleep.”

And there it was, right there, the well of kindness at the heart of his little brother if you only knew where to look.

“Day eight, Gordon,” said Jacinta, setting the bowl aside. “You’re doing so well.”

“Yeah.” But Gordon didn’t look well. Waking from sleep with the younger Gordon’s face fresh in Virgil’s mind brought the current one into sharp and bleak focus. His colour was gray, his eyes bleared with a pain that never stopped, his mouth ragged with the screams he saved for himself alone in order to spare his brother.

For the weakest moment of his life, Virgil wished himself back in that afternoon, with the scent of wet wool and wood-fire in his nostrils, the sounds of his kid brothers wrangling happily in his ears. Just the memory of those home-like aromas was enough to bring the acrid notes of vomit and disinfectant into a harsh contrast that made him ache.

Ten more days of this.

Rubbing his eyes and his mouth, Virgil bent to pick up the book where it had fallen from his hands.

“Okay. Where were we? Right. Search for Atlantis. Chapter 8. I know I Left it Somewhere.”

A hoarse chuckle.

“Where Did We Park that City Again?”

And once more Virgil began the thankless task of wresting back a few more hours from the day.


	11. Day 10

Morning was the worst, Virgil thought, and that was something he’d never thought before. He was the kind of man who was, admittedly, hard to get going first thing, but somewhere inside him was an unspoken gratitude for the fact of every new day. There was always so much to do and learn in his engineering course; and at home, so many laughs to be had, so much music to discover, so much art to explore. There had been nights when he’d rolled into bed with regret at things left undone thanks to a sunset that came too soon; he’d never before rolled out of bed with such a profound sense of dread for what lay ahead of him.

The alarm woke him, after too few hours of sleep. He lingered over breakfast, putting off the moment when he would walk to the hospital. The moment when he stepped through the large automatic doors into the foyer was the moment he consigned himself to another day of watching his brother in the grip of something he couldn’t see and couldn’t fight. Whatever invisible creature it was that crouched on that bed it was tearing Gordon apart in a kind of slow motion deconstruction of everything that made him who he was – his sunny nature, his kindness, his optimism and sense of adventure. It took his brother’s courage and chewed it up as carelessly as a predator chews flesh, and Virgil hated every day he had to bear witness to it. 

By 0600 hours he was by Gordon’s bed, waiting for the nursing staff to come in and switch off the sleep activator. Of all the moments to come in the day it was always this that twisted Virgil’s gut, that tightened his shoulders and jaw. He had tried looking away, or standing by the window; he had tried not being there at all. Nothing helped, and avoiding it just brought a layer of guilt to the whole ugly process, so now he sat close to Gordon’s side and watched as the unit that kept him unconscious was deactivated for the day and his brother came back to the world. Virgil was right there to see his face screw up even before he’d awoken, to witness the second that awareness of his reality permeated the cloud of sleep, and despair was all Gordon’s eyes could hold as they opened.

“Hey, bro.”

Gordon groaned, and closed his eyes again.

“Good morning, Gordon,” said Jacinta. “It’s sunny again outside. How are you today?”

“Fucking awful.”

“Day ten. You’re doing so well, isn’t he, Virgil?”

“Fuck off,” Gordon snarled.

“Well, afraid I can’t, I’m doing housekeeping this morning.” Housekeeping was the euphemism they used for the digital stimulation of Gordon’s bowels, something that Virgil made himself scarce for daily in a feeble attempt to help his brother find some dignity.

“You know what? No. Just fucking no.” Gordon opened his eyes and glared at both of them, his nostrils flaring, mouth tight.

“Come on, Gordon. You know we have to get this done. Then I’ll leave you in peace.”

“I’m not – Christ, I’m not in peace.” 

“This isn’t negotiable, Gordon. You know that. I’ll be done in ten minutes.” Jacinta spoke lightly but firmly, readying gloves, plastic, a bowl and cloth. “Come on. A couple more days and this part will be over. You’re doing so well.”

“I said no!” There was barely any strength in his arms, but it didn’t matter; he flung his right arm out and the momentum was enough to send the bowl clattering to the floor. Virgil jumped up to get out of the way.

“Hey, Gordon, hold on. Calm down.”

“Oh, fuck off, Virgil. Seriously, just fuck right off.”

“Wow,” Virgil said, his heart thumping but trying for a light tone. “You know you just blew your allowance in the swear jar, right?”

Gordon scrunched his face, his jaw tipped back as the pain engulfed him again and tears began to appear at the corner of his eyes. 

“No. You don’t get to fucking joke! Jesus!”

“Okay, Gordo, why don’t we – “

“What is fucking wrong with you? Why are you here?”

Virgil swallowed, knowing this conversation was heading nowhere good.

“I’m here to help however I can. Jacinta’s right, you’re doing really well, you know we’re going to – “

“Fucking hell. ‘We’? You complete fucking asshole, don’t you dare stand there and talk about ‘we’!”

Virgil said nothing, and Gordon gave a groaning half-laugh.

“Just – just fuck off, Virgil. You’re not helping, okay? I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing, but you’re not helping.”

“Alright, that’s enough.” Jacinta retrieved the bowl, and gave Virgil a kindly look. “Why don’t you pop out and see what Byron’s up to? I think Kathy brought in some muffins for morning tea, he might know where she stashed them.”

Numbly Virgil did as he was told, not glancing back at Gordon as the door slid closed behind him. He saw Byron noting something at the nurses’ station and headed over to him, too tired and disheartened to think about heading anywhere but where he’d been directed to go.

“He wake up on the wrong side this morning?”

Virgil gave a faint huff. “You could say that.” He scrubbed his face with his hands, half-wondering if this was just a continuation of a nightmare.

“Well, as it happens I do know where the muffins are and I’ve got some of the good stuff in this thermos. Want one?”  
Before he’d even begun to formulate a response a mug of coffee was handed to him, along with a blueberry muffin.

“Is this what you do to all your rejected relatives? Feed them into submission?”

“Pretty much. The ones we like, anyway.” Byron hitched a hip onto the station. “You look like you just gave a pint of blood.”

“Let’s just say, the reviews for the support team weren’t good this morning.” Virgil blew on the coffee, but it was an automatic action; his mind was set on a looped recording of the more discouraging highlights of Gordon’s performance.

“Hmm. I remember one time a patient pulled out the catheter and threw it and the urine bag at his mother. I’d say you got off lightly.”

Dutifully, Virgil laughed, but the sound was hollow, and before it had finished he had covered his eyes with his spare hand.

“I’m failing him, aren’t I?” He shook his head. “God, what was I doing? Making swear jar jokes.”

“Virgil, you’re doing fine.”

“Obviously.”

“We were just talking about you and Gordon yesterday. You know, he really is remarkable. And you’ve done a remarkable job.”

“He just kicked me out!” He tried not to raise his voice, but it was that or throw the coffee in lieu of a urine bag.

“Virgil, he’s on the 97th percentile. The nociceptors in his skin are amongst the most sensitive we’ve seen in someone undergoing this procedure, and no one here thought he’d last beyond day three. We knew whatever length of time he got would be helpful. We were so happy he lasted long enough to get the use of one hand – and then what do you know, he’s hung in there until he got both the brachial and the thoracic plexus connected, two whole arms and independent breathing. He can go play Paralympic basketball if he wants to! You have no idea how much he’s achieved. And he wouldn’t have done it without you there helping him through.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know how much use I’m going to be to him from here on in.” Virgil gestured back towards the room. “I don’t know if you heard that?”

“Actually, I did. I thought I’d better listen in first thing this morning. We thought today might be a tough one.”

“How did you know?”

Byron shrugged. “Can’t rightly say, but you do this job long enough, you get a feel for it. He’s tiring. But whatever he chooses now, he really has done well.”

“You keep saying that.” Virgil frowned. “And what do you mean? Do you mean if he chooses to give up now?”

“You can’t call it giving up. You’ve seen what he’s gone through. No one could ask for more from him.”

Dad will call it giving up, Virgil thought, Dad would ask for more, but he didn’t say it. He didn’t have the heart to argue the point, and he didn’t know what he believed anyway. For one truly horrible second the thought of Gordon stopping this whole thing and being free of the pain shone before him as a prize, and it was horrible because Virgil knew that in that moment he didn’t care if it meant Gordon would never have the use of his legs. He just wanted it done.

But what did Gordon want? An end to pain, no doubt, but he also wanted what any young, fit, active man wanted – a whole body to explore the world with.

He rubbed his eyes, tired and heartsick and unable to summon the will to go back in to the room with his brother.

Byron gave him a sympathetic look.

“You know, there’s a reason we prefer it if there’s a team of people supporting someone doing the Hsiang. It’s a hell of an ordeal, and right now that boy’s world is pretty much all bad. The thing is, when it’s just one person there, and they’re with you all the time, it‘s hard to disassociate the person from the pain.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, he wakes up to you and to pain. All day long, they’re the two constants; you and pain. After a while a patient can start to get the two confused.”

Something of the heaviness in him shifted a little.

“So he wasn’t so much telling me to fuck off as he was telling it to the pain?”

“Makes sense, don’t you think?”

It did. It didn’t make much difference in one way – Gordon still didn’t want him in there – but it helped Virgil understand a little of what might be going on in his brother’s head.

“So what should I do? Go back in? Stay away?”

“Give him an hour. Let Jacinta finish, let him get his bearings again. You too.”

“Oh, I’m fine.”

“Yes. You Tracy boys.” Byron gave a little shake of his head. “Go and be fine down on the beach.”

Virgil took his advice – at least in so far as leaving the hospital, but the thought of the beach did not appeal. He realised it was a Saturday; there were more cars on the road heading past the hospital towards the sea, and the thought of sitting among a crowd of pleasure-seekers as they set up for the day, happy families shaking out towels and opening picnic baskets, sending their children off towards the water as though nothing there could ever harm them – no. Every little child in his mind was a tiny, mop-haired, brown-eyed boy wrestling free of his mother’s arms to race into the waves, shrieking for joy as he leapt into the highest one he could find, arms wide to it as it rolled him back up the sand to lie breathless there, star fished, before doing it all again.

Instead, he headed across the road to find his place beneath the palm tree on the demolition site again. Its continued existence, tall and strong, all funky-leafed shade and rustle on a plot of abandoned land long discarded by others spoke to him; something about the refusal to bow before the forces that were trying to tear them both down. He found the same spot and sat down there, just breathing in the nascent heat and the dust from the track alongside the house. For all the humidity it reminded him of Kansas, of the farm at the height of summer when life was spent outdoors and dirt was a badge of honour, the mark of a day well spent.

He rolled his shoulders and then reached into his jacket to pull out his piano. It was a favourite thing of his, to play outside, with the sounds of nature adding contrapuntal spice to the music he made. Here it was as much traffic as birdsong, but he welcomed it nonetheless. Slowly he began to play; tunes he’d loved when he was a boy, tunes that were his first conquests, others that became staples, then ones that still challenged him.

The music helped him, as it always did. Soon he was lost in it; the serrated shade from above intercut the colour display below, and he barely noticed the odd beauty it created, so deeply did he need to find and follow the comfort that the melody, the music held for him.

He’d set his alarm for an hour; the beep startled him. He stopped playing, and looked up, blinking – just in time to hear the small smattering of applause, and realise that a group of people were standing on the sidewalk, listening to him play. Homeless men and women, their belongings in bags and trolleys; families, walking beachwards from the bus stop, buckets and spades in hand; students from the nearby university.

“You want a few dollars?” called the father of one family group. Virgil shook his head.

“No thanks. I’m fine.”

“You’re good, man,” one of the students called. “You should do that for real.”

“I just did,” Virgil said. Bemused, the young woman walked away, chatting with her friends, no doubt wondering about the weird guy who sat there and played under the palm tree and didn’t even put out a bucket for loose change.

All of a sudden Virgil felt as though he’d been away from Gordon for many hours, not just one. He quickly packed away the piano and hurried back across the road into the cool depths of the hospital.

“He’s back,” said Byron. “How are you feeling?”

Virgil nodded.

“Better. How’s he doing?”

“I think he’ll be glad to see you,” Byron said, busying himself at the station. “He’s apologised to Jacinta, and believe me, that doesn’t always happen. He’s a sweet boy under it all.”

“I know,” Virgil murmured, as the door slid back.

Inside the blue cocoon that was his brother’s hospital room it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. Then he saw that Gordon’s face was turned towards the door. At his entrance, Gordon twisted the top half of his torso around, painfully, then stretched out his left hand before pulling it back, as if it had escaped him unconsciously.

“I thought you weren’t coming back,” Gordon said, his voice a gasp.

Virgil hurried to his side.

“Of course I was. Just went for some air, is all.”

“No.” Gordon shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, I was such an asshole. I didn’t mean it.”

“Shh, it’s okay, I know that.”

“I didn’t mean it, Virge. I swear. I thought you had gone away, too.”

“No, I wouldn’t. Jesus.” Virgil felt the sick knife of guilt in his stomach. “Just outside for a bit.”

“I didn’t mean it.”

“I know, I know. It’s okay.” Unable to help himself, Virgil grabbed Gordon’s hands; and even though it obviously pained him, Gordon hung on and gripped back, harder. “Come on, Gordo. It’s okay. I got you.”

“So sorry.”

“I got you.”

The slow, sad afternoon wore away, but the grip held, as Gordon’s body shook with tremors of agony and he clawed back more feeling even as he punished the nerves he already had. By evening he was unable to say anything at all, and in one way that was something Virgil didn’t mind, since all he’d been able to do earlier was say the one thing on his mind: I’m sorry. Don’t leave me.

Fiona was the first of the night staff on, and she was the one who came in like some sort of angel to switch on Gordon’s sleep activator. 

And then Virgil watched the best part of the day, as Gordon was taken away from him into sleep.

Slowly, he got to his feet, rolling his shoulders to ease the ache he’d earned from holding his brother’s hands, from fighting against his own desire for him and his brother to be anywhere but here. He gave a quiet ‘goodnight’ to Fiona, bent forward and kissed Gordon’s forehead, then made his way back out into the early evening of an LA summer’s day.  
Tomorrow, they’d get to do it all again.  
 


	12. The Last Day

Gordon had managed to curl himself partly on his side, partly around, in an act of defence against an enemy that worked within the same body. The gel bed accommodated the movement, held him there in a position like a human question mark, asking questions to which his brother had no answers. How much longer? How much more can I take? Why won’t you make the pain go away? Why can’t you rescue me from this?

“It’s not zero-sum,” Virgil murmured to him, clenching his own fists in order not to stroke Gordon’s forehead in a move that would comfort himself but torment his brother. “You’re paying in pain, but you’re getting back movement. Every minute, Gordo. Byron says you’re regaining the lumbar-sacral nerves now. That’s legs, Gordo. And everything else down there. Love you long time, remember? You’ll be swimming, and diving, and running, good as new.”

The only sound his brother made was an occasional soft keening, as if mourning for the loss of self, taken hostage by pain.

“Think about what you’ve got already. Who knew? Remember when you started, and it was all some wild risky thing? You couldn’t move, not a bit, not even your head. And now look at you. Day Thirteen. Only five more to go. Breathing on your own. Beating up bed pans. Out of control, you are.”

Fists on the gel bed, clench and spasm, open and clench, constant quotation marks beside the question. Why aren’t you helping me?

“I think Alan’s coming out in a couple of days.”

A sharp intake of breath, a strangled “Nooo,” barely audible.

“You don’t want him to come?”

Gordon’s head rocked back and forth in a definite ‘no’.

“Okay, but he’ll be pretty disappointed. He wants to be here for you. But I get it.” There was a kind of awful momentum to this non-conversation that was carrying Virgil along, and he knew the reason he didn’t resist was because he really didn’t want to hear what Gordon might have to say if he stopped. “He did great on that physics test, by the way. Pretty impressive for a kid who has missed a chunk of school, being over here, then looking after Grandma back in Kansas. I hear he has designs for the re-building of the barn. He’s thinking observatory in the hayloft, grease pit down below.” Virgil gave a chuckle, so false sounding he would be sickened on another day. All the honesty he thought defined him, and it was gone in favour of cheap salesman tricks. I’m sorry, he thought, even as he picked up the tap dancing Gordon had finally abandoned.

“And John’s in space! He called before he left, remember? They took off last night. Showed it online and all. So you’re no longer the main media star of the family. Guess it’ll be John’s autograph now they’ll be after.” Oh, god, stop me, stop this drivel. But Gordon’s head was rocking backwards and forwards again, a soundless no, no, no, and Virgil didn’t want to break his promise so early in the day.

“Haven’t heard from Scott, but Dad said not to worry. They’ll be back at the peace accord, Dad says. This is nothing but a bluff. Don’t know, myself, I think the blockade looked pretty real, but Dad’s been in Washington, I guess he hears more than we do.”

“Dad.”

“Yeah, he finally finished at the senate appropriations committee. He’s back at work in KC, checking up on Grandma.”

“Virgil.”

“So, you want music? Or movies, we could watch that latest Lawrence one – “

“No.”

“No? Okay, how about –“

“Virgil.”

And here it was. He could soft shoe no more without extending his brother’s suffering meaninglessly.

“What is it, Gordo?”

“Can’t.”

At last, he looked fully at his little brother’s face, and saw the tears streaming down his cheeks. Even as he watched, Gordon hitched in his breath and let out a full bodied sob.

“Can’t. Can’t.”

“Gordy. Hey.” Virgil felt his own throat constrict. Gordon’s head kept rocking, hopelessly.

“Can’t.”

“Do you – “ Virgil swallowed, taking several breaths to steady himself. “What do you want?” Because if you say it now, if you ask to stop, then my promise to kick your butt is worthless. I’ll let you ask this. I will stop it for you, and I will be the one who has defined your limitations for the rest of your life.

“No, no, no,” Gordon sobbed. “Can’t. Can’t, Virge.”

“Okay. I got you. It’s alright, it will be alright in just a bit. I’ll stop this, bro.” Virgil stood up, readying himself to walk over to the door, open it, and ask the nurses out there to stop his brother’s healing. It was almost a sense of numbness that filled him, as he prepared to save and condemn his brother with a word.

But so suddenly it startled him, a hand shot out and grabbed his arm.

“No. No!” A long gasp, and then Gordon arched backwards, everything in his upper body straining and contorting in agony.

“Gordon, what – what do you want?”

“Dad. Dad.”

Virgil covered the hand on his arm with his own.

“You want Dad to come?”

“Please. Please. Dad.”

Virgil blew out his breath, shakily.

“Okay, okay. Alright, Gordy, let me – let me go outside and I’ll call him, okay? He’ll be here soon as he can.”

“Promise.”

“Yeah, I promise.” And with that, Virgil realised it wasn’t his brother’s butt he was going to kick in order to keep his word.

“You hold on, okay? Just going outside. I’ll be right back.”

With a spastic movement, Gordon’s fingers released their hold and Virgil gently placed his brother’s hand back on the bed.

Shakily, he walked over to the door and then out to the central area. What he had to say wouldn’t do well with an audience, but for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to go too far from Gordon in his state of distress. He looked about, then remembered the quiet area for the use of relatives on this floor but outside the unit. 

He found it, and for once luck was on his side – no one else was using it. He walked in and closed the door behind him. If asked later he would not be able to describe any feature of the room, except that the door could be locked.

Tremblingly, he blew out several deep breaths, then straightened and pulled out his comm-unit. His father’s name sounded harsh in the quiet space.

A swirl of colour, then his father’s assistant was onscreen.

“Hello, Virgil. What can I do for you?”

“Hello, Polly. Nothing, right now. I need my father.”

“I’m sorry, Virgil,” so smooth, so practiced the dismissal, “but your father is in a meeting and can’t be disturbed.”

“I’m sorry, Polly, but that’s not quite right. He can be disturbed, and you’re about to do it.”

Polly blinked, then gave a little laugh.

“You boys. Now, you know better than that.”

“Yes, I do. I do know better. I know that you are perfectly capable of putting me through. Or, if that’s not advisable, you are perfectly capable of getting up, walking over to the meeting room and getting my father. Which is what you are going to do.”

“Virgil, I – “

“Now, Polly. Thank you.”

His father didn’t hire fools. Polly stared at him, without expression, then got up and moved away from the screen.

Virgil watched her disappear and then stood there with his heart thumping.

But I’m not scared, he suddenly thought. I’m furious.

Good. This, I can use.

“Virgil. What’s going on? Is it Gordon?”

His father’s obvious concern mollified Virgil slightly.

“Yes, it’s Gordon. He’s calling for you. You need to be here, Dad.”

There was a pause. Clearly, Jeff had not been expecting this.

“Well, I’d like to, of course. But just now – “

“No. Dad, no. You need to be here.”

“Virgil, I don’t think you know what you’re asking.”

“I know exactly what I’m asking. No, actually, I’m not asking, I’m telling. Gordon’s struggling. He’s really doing it tough. You need to be here. Now. Today.”

“That’s not possible.”

The snort of derision that came from Virgil surprised even him.

“Bullshit, Dad. You can move mountains if you want.”

His father was beginning to get angry. In fairness, he’d lasted with more patience than Virgil expected.

“You have no idea what is happening with the company right now.”

“No, I don’t. But I know what’s happening with Gordon. He needs you, Dad, he’s calling for you. You have to come.”

That eye flicker again, the little tell that gave away Jeff Tracy’s insincerity.

“I know you’d like to think that we can sort our differences with some goodwill and a quiet chat, but the fact is, he’s – he doesn’t want anything to do with me. That’s his decision, and I respect that.”

Wow. Virgil blinked as abrupt understanding came to him. It wasn’t his father’s insincerity he was seeing in that eye-flicker; it was his insecurity. Wasn’t often Jeff Tracy had to deal with rejection. He drew in a breath.

“Dad, to hear him tell it, it was you that pushed him away.”

“That’s – I would never do that!”

”Well, good. That’s great. You both want to be besties. Come down here and show it to him.”

“He doesn’t want me. You’ve been doing such a good job with him. I’m proud of you, Virgil, really. Him too, of course. You’ve both done well.”

Deflection, thy name is Tracy.

“We’ve done as much as we can, Dad. He needs you now.”

His father frowned, blinked, looked away.

“I really don’t feel – “

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” Jeff startled, but Virgil was past niceties. “This is not about what you feel or what I feel. It’s about the unmitigated hell that your son is going through in the room next door.”

“I know you’re upset, Virgil, but you need to watch your tone.”

“No, I really don’t. What I need to watch, what I’ve watched every day for the past thirteen days, is my little brother going through seven kinds of shit in order to get his life back. Now you are going to do what you should have done once Washington was finished and get down here to give him your support.”

“I can’t just drop everything here. The Cleveland plant – “

“Fuck the Cleveland Plant, and fuck you too.” Virgil was snarling. “Way you tell it, you pay attention to ultimatums, so I’m giving you one now. The next time I talk to you it better be today and it better be in person in that hospital room, because otherwise you can consider yourself the father of three sons.”

“Don’t you dare say – “

“Oh, I fucking well dare. Virgil Tracy out.”

For a full minute, the anger that sizzled through him burned at his fingertips, and he found himself rocking on his toes. A punching bag would have been extremely helpful at that point.

But there was not time to find one. Gordon needed him, and Virgil unlocked the door and headed back to his brother’s room, half-wondering what would happen if his father called his bluff.

To hell with it. To hell with his dad. And to hell with Virgil, which was currently located in Room 4 of the Spinal Injury Unit, St Jude’s Hospital, LA.

When he re-entered it, Gordon had curled further, and his arms were now above his head, his hands clasped in front of his face, hiding it.

“Hey, Gordon,” Virgil said softly, coming back to his place by his brother’s side. “He’s coming.”

The hands shifted slightly to clear a space for Gordon to see. At first he could only mouth at the word, but finally he found a way past the pain to let sound out. “Dad?”

“Yeah. He’ll be here.” It was the truth, or it wasn’t. It would buy him some time, allow Gordon another few hours of healing as he held on to hope. Maybe it would be these hours, bought with a lie, that made the difference? “He’s getting himself sorted. Be here in the afternoon.”

“Dad.”

“Yeah, Gordo. He’s coming for you.”

As the tears ran down his brother’s face, Virgil couldn’t help wondering if he was crying because his father was coming, or because it meant he had put aside the stopping of the process and committed himself to another day of this.

Of all the days they spent together in that hospital room, it was this one that Virgil always recalled the most clearly. The way the time dawdled past, a month for a minute, a year for an hour. The sound proofing meant they didn’t know when someone approached the unit until they were inside, so they weren’t disturbed by false hope as visitors came and went outside; but the door’s silence became a detestable thing, its refusal to open an action born of inanimate malice. Virgil sat and calculated; how long before his father could wrap up that meeting, fire up the plane, get to the airport, fly down? From Long Beach airport to the hospital was twenty eight minutes, so add that to the previous time and – the calculations went on through the day, impossibly short time frames intersected with appallingly long ones. The one he figured to be the most accurate, allowing for a reasonable space of time at each stage, meant an arrival point of around 1600 hours. 

When 1800 hours came and went, Virgil lowered his head into his hands.

“Not – not coming?”

“Sorry,” he whispered. “Sorry.”

Fingers, grabbing at his hands, holding on.

“Tried. Tried.” And the fact it was his brother giving him comfort at this point was the final dagger in his heart.

“Not hard enough.” He gripped the fingers, without opening his eyes. “Thought – I really thought –“

“Told you.” The head rocking was back. “Doesn’t want me.”

“I thought he did. I thought…”

“Hurts, Virge. Hurts so much,” and Virgil couldn’t tell if his little brother was talking about the ravaging of his body or the rejection of his father.

The door opened. Virgil glanced up, quickly, even now a stupid hope in his heart, which fled as he saw it was only Jacinta coming in. He squeezed his eyes shut.

When he opened them again, bleary with tiredness and disappointment, he saw her move aside and behind her, standing there as if summoned by some act of will, his father.

Jeff Tracy strode into the room with all the assuredness he mustered at times of crisis, seemingly on demand.

“Gordon?” Dad came to the bed and squeezed Virgil’s shoulder in acknowledgement, but all his attention was on the boy in the bed in front of him.

The hand not holding onto Virgil was back covering Gordon’s face. He moved it, enough to stare up at the newcomer.

“Gordon, I’m here.”

“What…”

His father leant over and took the hand that was on Gordon’s face.

“I’m here now.”

“What…”

Jeff tilted his head, all concentration.

“I don’t understand. What are you asking, son?”

“What … do I... call you?”

Jeff swallowed, then he looked right into Gordon’s face.

“Dad. You call me Dad. Can you do that?”

A tiny nod, and the fingers in Jeff’s hand squeezed.

“Can’t make it, Dad.”

His father nodded, understanding what Gordon meant.

“Alright. You tell me, son. Have you got one more day?”

“One?”

“One more. Just one.”

There was a pause. Virgil was finding it hard to breathe.

Then, a shudder, and the fingers gripped.

“Yeah. One more.”

Jeff nodded, sure, calm, certain as he always was. 

“Then that’s how we get this done. One day more.” His dad looked back at him, and Virgil had nothing but exhaustion to give him. Another nod, then a smile for them both. “Virgil and I are going to tag team the shit out of this.”  
 


	13. Day 23

Virgil simply sat.

It wasn’t something he did often. There were always things to be done, on the farm or at university; chores, adventures, study, games. His was a life surrounded by others who regularly demanded his time, and he gave it, gladly, because that just seemed to him to be the way of the world. When he had time for himself, he could explore his art and music. But whatever the activity, he was always doing.

But now he leaned back in the chair and put his feet up on the edge of the wretched gel bed and did absolutely nothing.

His dad had suggested he go for a run; Gordon, of course, thought the only possible option was the beach and a swim in the sea. Virgil had hummed agreeably, and then once they left the room, sat down and did nothing. Nada.

He let his mind float, unencumbered by worry for the first time in months. He thought of his brothers, his grandmother; of future possibilities for all of them, hinted at by Dad, hazy yet intriguing. Into his mind a tune wandered, something by Cormac Jones, the latest wunderkind from Ireland with all the bitter sweetness of that land in its lilt. Outside the window a bird hovered, persistently annoying its own reflection until flying off in a snit.

He thought of Gordon Tracy, that kid who was always in a hurry, who held on tight to his brother and his father and made it through to Day 16 to beat the odds and the mean time of healing. It was only a week ago when they wheeled him away to take out the unit, his father by his side all the way to the theatre doors, but already that dark time together seemed to belong to the distant past.

He wriggled his shoulders and settled deeper into the chair. Doing nothing. It had a certain charm.

He remembered, suddenly, John at the age of eight, deciding that each of them needed to go on a spirit quest. Virgil was the first to put up his hand, so he was the first to be laid on a bed and covered in every blanket and quilt the boys had in order to make the Tracy version of a sweat lodge. 

“Let me know when you have a vision,” John had called to him, sounding like he was a hundred miles away. Dutifully, Virgil closed his eyes and tried to find something startling in his mind with which to galvanise his brothers; but all he could think was that the blankets were heavy, and horribly hot, and he was going to smother if they didn’t get them off him right now.

“No, Virgil, wait. It’s supposed to be tough,” John assured him, and the blankets drove him deeper into the mattress and into the certainty that he would never find his way out in time. Virgil remembered the feeling of overwhelming weight and darkness, how alone and filled with hopelessness that darkness seemed; and he remembered, too, the sensation of the blankets being pulled from him, one at a time, as a scolding mother had appeared and ordered them to stop torturing each other, what were you thinking, oh my goodness Virgil are you under there, while John earnestly explained that it wasn’t torture but a ritual and that Virgil would come back with messages for the tribe.

The feeling of sequential lightness was what brought the memory to him today. Day by day after the operation to remove the unit the heaviness had lifted, layer by layer, as he watched Gordon come back from that place of despair and agony, as he watched his father and his brother find each other again.

He didn’t know if it was funny or sad, the way Gordon’s eyes followed Dad everywhere, the way Dad had to be close to him, touching if possible. He wondered if they had broken some kind of record, the speed with which they had gone from estrangement to complete co-dependency. It wouldn’t last, he knew; this little bubble would be broken when they left the hospital (when Gordon danced out the front doors, as he’d promised what seemed a lifetime ago) and returned to the lives so cruelly interrupted. Dad would be back in the air most days, flying from one Tracy Industries site to another; Gordon would be back to the farm for now, and then one day back to WASP. So maybe they could just indulge their need for closeness in this brief space of time. They deserved it. It was hard won.

Another heavy blanket had lifted off him just that morning. The news yesterday had been the best they could hope for; Bereznik and the GDF had come to an agreement regarding the disputed territories, and a general ceasefire was in place. Gordon’s whoop at the report had caught Jacinta just as she began to put down the breakfast tray at his bedside, and as Gordon’s expressions of enthusiasm were known to cause seismic tremors in unstable areas, it was no surprise that the breakfast ended up over him, Dad and the stack of im-ex movies on the bedside table.

So now, after helping to clean them all up and then waving his dad and Gordon off to rehabilitation therapy for the morning, Virgil just sat and enjoyed the sensation of being almost weight-free. One blanket remained – for John, currently in orbit with NASA – but it was a relatively light one. Of anybody on the planet, Virgil had faith in John’s knowledge about space travel, and thanks to his dad’s reminiscences, he knew the level of preparation and training that went into these space flights. Of course something could go wrong. A hydrofoil crash at 400 knots demonstrated that. But living life waiting for disaster was not something Virgil could do. You planned, you prepared, you practised – and then, you committed to whatever it was you were attempting, no second thoughts.

Or you sat at home and waited to die of old age.

Virgil stretched and yawned, contented as an old tabby in the sunlight. The blue coloured light in the room was gone, replaced with a warm golden tone that reminded him of ripe wheat late on a sunny Kansas afternoon. The homesickness that came with it was a kind of indulgence; he could enjoy that bittersweet longing because he knew they would all be back there, soon.

The door slid open, and the room was instantly full of noise and Gordon.

“Yeah, but, okay, I get that it’s theoretically possible to overdo them, but at the same time, if it’s doable then that’s gotta mean it’s within your muscle capacity and that means you’ve got to do it so that you extend the capacity by challenging it. Right?” This last bit was to Virgil, who blinked at his dad, pushing Gordon’s wheelchair. His father just shook his head.

“You’ll need to back up for me, Gordo. Extending the what now?”

Gordon rolled his eyes. The little shit.

“Muscles, Virgil, come on. You gotta push them past the point of comfort, right? Otherwise you stick at where you are.”

“Dad? Gordon overdoing it in therapy again?”

“Whatever gave you that idea?” Jeff brought the chair to the bedside, then stooped to give Gordon a hand back onto the bed.

“And I’m telling you that you can’t overdo it. If your muscles can do it, they should, right?”

Gordon settled back, his dad’s arm behind his head, gentling the descent.

“Do you want your book?”

“No, I’m good.”

“Do you want a drink of water?”

“No, I’m fine.”

“You should have a drink after that workout.”

“I have had a drink.”

“But you should have more.”

“Dad!”

Dad fussed; Gordon resisted. Gordon grabbed for the candy bar by the bed; Dad slapped his wrist. It was like watching a bizarre mating dance between unwitting suitors, and it brought Virgil a quiet kind of joy.

He got it, now. The previous disconnection between them, his brother and his father, had made no sense to him at all. They loved each other as deeply and as strongly as any two members of the Tracy family loved the other, and that this was a simple and obvious truth to Virgil left him bewildered in the face of its seeming betrayal. He had originally thought it pride and humiliation on his father’s part, and something like it on Gordon’s. 

He’d been horribly wrong, and he saw it with every moment between them now, when no touch lingered too long, no look strayed into embarrassment.

Gordon had spent seven years teetering on the edge of an abyss called rejection, and it had taken the slightest prod of his father’s anger to send him crashing down there. His father had hidden his own guilt and sorrow even longer, and the thought of its surfacing untethered him and left him falling into the same abyss.

It wasn’t pride that separated them; it was fear, and one too terrible to face alone. In their fear they had first pushed each other away, to save themselves as they fell. But somewhere in this last week the push turned to a life-saving grab that locked them together tighter than they’d ever been. They realised they weren’t alone; they finally understood that, when they reached bedrock, they found each other, still looking, still hoping. 

“Right. Good. Well, I have things I need to do.” Dad stood up and stretched his back. Virgil guessed he’d been involved in a lot of the stretching exercises on the floor today.

“Not – back in KC?”

And would you believe it, the great Jeff Tracy could do an eye roll as comic as his son’s.

“No, not in KC. First I’m going down to get a coffee – Virgil, you want one?” At the negative, he continued. “Then I’m going for a walk outside to get some air and you – “ this to Gordon – “are getting some sleep. If you’re very good, after a couple of hours I will then be picking up some of those pulled pork sliders from Gretschke’s down the road and bringing them back for us to share.”

“With coleslaw?” Gordon pleaded.

“Yes, with coleslaw. If!” and Dad raised a finger, “you sleep.”

“On it.” Gordon settled back, closing his eyes. “Sleepingness. Done.”

With a long-suffering, infinitely fond sigh, Jeff raised his eyebrows at Virgil in question. Virgil shook his head.

“I’m good. I’ll head outside in a few, leave him to it.”

“Well alright then.” Jeff grabbed Gordon’s foot and waggled it. “See that you do, Gordon.”

“Yessir. Sleeping, sir.”

It lasted for as long as it took for their father to leave the room (with one last look back at his sons) before Gordon sat back up, a demented jack in the box.

“Virgil! Hey, Virge, you’ll never guess what happened!”

The phone buzzed in Virgil’s pocket.

“Hold that thought, Squirt.” Unsuspecting, he dug into his pocket, brought the phone up - and when he saw who it was, let out a shout.

“Scott!”

“Hi Virgil.” It was Scott, looking straight at him, eyes blue in dark circles but smiling through the hint of stubble on his chin. 

He looked exhausted, but a different kind of exhaustion to the one he left the hospital with. Now, he wasn’t torn, and there was something else in his face, a kind of baseline satisfaction that told Virgil the answer to the question before he asked it.

“Everyone tucked in over there?”

“All my boys and girls. Yep. Not one, Virgil. All safe.”

It was the kind of benediction a commander like Scott lived for, and Virgil shared his smile. In the corner of his eye he could see Gordon sitting up higher, eyes sparkling with excitement, hands making grabby actions towards the phone.

“That’s great, man,” Virgil said, instinctively half turning away in order to deny Gordon’s request.

“You know it.”

“Where are you?”

“Germany, just now. Squadron’s here for three days then we’re back stateside, and with leave due.”

“So you’ll be home soon?” Virgil said, ignoring Gordon’s agitated whisper of his name.

“Don’t know where I’ll be first,” Scott said, and gave a slow yawn. “Don’t know where anyone is. Where’s Dad?”

“He’s here in LA, with me and Gordon.”

“Then I’ll probably swing by there before going to the farm. Alan back there still?”

“Yeah.” 

Then Scott’s face took on another look, the kind he had when there was something difficult to be faced and he was square jawing his way to it. “How is Gordon? He, uh – he doing okay?”

And in a sudden flash, Virgil realised something both wonderful and sad.

Scott hadn’t heard.

“Not getting your messages?”

“Why? What have I missed?” The question was sharp, with Scott sitting forward, going instantly on alert. Virgil raised his hands to calm him.

“No, it’s fine, nothing’s wrong. But you haven’t looked at your messages?”

A brief headshake, and a hardness in the line of Scott’s mouth that told everything.

“We bought that negotiating table hard, Virge. We fought ‘em to it. I haven’t looked at anything from the outside world in days. Weeks, I guess.” He paused to wipe a hand across his face. “Operating on the no news is good news principle, I guess.”

Virgil glanced at Gordon, who had got the same message about Scott being out of the loop. Gordon pointed towards the large wall screen, then lay back and dropped his arms so they were quiescent at his sides. 

What are you up to? Virgil silently asked, eyebrows raised, but he had an idea. Gordon gave a quick headshake – go with me, bro – and Virgil nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Wait a sec, I’ll put you onscreen.” Virgil held up his phone, tapped it and then made a throwing motion towards the large wall screen. The image flew to the larger portal, and Scott was suddenly three feet high and smiling tiredly at them both.

“Hey, Gordo. Good to see you, little brother.”

“Hi, Scott.” Gordon’s voice was weak, and he wore the kind of bravely suffering smile that would have made little Lord Fauntleroy throw up in nauseated disgust.

You little shit, Virgil thought, with a kind of horrified admiration. Well, he guessed Gordon had earned the right to this one.

“How are you doing? What do the doctors say?”

Gordon didn’t so much as twitch an eyelash.

“I’m doing good.” A noble little sigh. “Getting better every day.”

“That’s – that’s great to hear,” and suddenly Virgil could see what it was costing Scott to rally from whatever faint hopes lay dashed at the sight of his brother still paralysed. Scott had carried his squadron for weeks through hell, and now he was finding a different sort waiting for him at the end of it. It wasn’t funny anymore, and Gordon should know it.

“Gordon,” he said, warning.

“Oh, Scott, Virgil did a picture for me. You want to see it?”

“Yeah, sure, kiddo,” and Scott was soothing and encouraging, an act of courage in the face of his exhaustion and disappointment that would take Virgil’s breath away if he wasn’t kind of used to it from his big brother by now.

“Great.” Gordon swung his legs around, gripped the low bars on either side of the bed, and pulled himself to a stand beside it. He reached for the picture Virgil drew of the beach a day or so ago and held it up, grinning like an eight year old. “Ta da.”

And Virgil caught it. To his dying day, he would hold it as proof that Scott Tracy was not omniscient, infallible and all powerful. For two whole solid seconds, Scott did not get what he was seeing.

In fact, he was squinting towards the picture.

Then he made a sound Virgil had never heard from him before, a lion’s joyous roar, and it turned his heart over.

“Gordon!”

His younger brother was cackling maniacally – and also swaying, because he had overdone it in therapy, the moron – and Virgil reached across the bed to steady him and pull him back onto it.

“Sit down, idiot.”

And Scott was still speechless, though he was thinking so hard Virgil could almost take it down verbatim.

It’s a trick. Has to be a trick. How is it a trick? They wouldn’t trick me about this. Is it a trick? It’s not a trick, it’s not a trick. It’s not a trick.

“You did it!” Scott threw his head back, another roar. “You sneaky, sorry little - you did it!”

“We did it,” Gordon corrected him, still grinning madly, “me and Virgil. And Dad.”

“Is it – what can – is it permanent?” Scott, always looking for threats to his brothers, but Gordon was shaking his head, as thrilled and happy as Virgil had ever seen him.

“It’s permanent. I’m permanent. Got legs and arms and – whoa, Virgil, was gonna tell you. Guess what happened in the therapy pool?” He looked meaningfully down at his groin, all expectant smugness.

Virgil gaped.

“Wow. Please tell me that is you being coy.”

“Coy?” There was something thick and choked beneath Scott’s chuckle, and Virgil thought, copy that. “Now I know something’s wrong. Gordon’s never been coy in his life.”

“Maybe they added that as a bonus.” Virgil looked at Gordon, considering.

“The blushing flower module? Could be.” Scott was trying so hard to hold back the emotions Virgil could see were swamping him. He’d never wanted more to be able to give his big brother a hug.

“Oookay. If you’re gonna be like that.” Gordon took a deep breath and then, in a voice of cut glass Oxford poshness, said, “I’ll have you both know I threw a boner in the pool that John could see from space.”

“From space, huh? Let me guess. Women got pregnant just looking at it,” Virgil said, solemnly.

“Women? Women, men, goats. It was the boner to end all boners. It sank the Titanic, split the atom and hit sixteen home runs at the World Series.”

At last Scott’s chuckle was freed into a genuine laugh.

“You idiot. Why are we talking about your peanut sized pizzle?”

Virgil leapt on the change in Scott’s voice.

“Do you remember when he used to pull it out every five seconds like it was his prized possession?”

Scott laughed again. “Couldn’t get him to put it away if we begged him.”

“Come on, guys.” There was a vintage Little Brother Whine. “I was a kid.”

“Yeah, you’re right, Gords. Give him a break, Virgil. He was only – what, sixteen? Seventeen?”

“I was little!”

“Hate to break it to you, kid, but you still are.”

“You’d think they would have stretched him a bit while they were fixing him up, wouldn’t they?” Virgil said, increasingly content at the light in Scott’s eyes.

Gordon harrumphed in spectacular fashion. “I was three, and I don’t even remember it. I bet you guys made this whole story up.”

“Gordon’s Penis Parade? Nope, every damn day.”

Virgil cracked up. “I remember Grandma saying, ‘If I see that thing again, Gordon Cooper Tracy, I’ll hit it with my  
ladle!’”

Then they all lost it, laughing with and at each other, and if Scott and Virgil shared a look or two that said he’s better, and if Virgil and Gordon shared a look or two that said he’s safe, well, that was for Virgil to know and keep close.

And so they talked, pointlessly, stupidly, and there was no mention of pain or fear or long days of despair from any of them. Virgil found himself watching as Gordon, tongue out in concentration, eyes lit with humour and pride, used both his hands and one of his feet to demonstrate to Scott the exercises he was doing in therapy, exaggerated for comic effect. It was ridiculous, and funny, and as Scott shouted his laughter Virgil took a moment to be thankful that this part of Gordon had survived it all.

And hell, why wouldn’t it? He’d thought of Gordon as teetering on the edge of that fall into isolation, but that wasn’t even close to it. His little brother didn’t cling in fear; Gordon tap-danced, right there on the edge, because that was what he always did when facing the worst thing he could think of. He tap-danced, right back at it. Hell, maybe they all did, in their own ways.

With that thought, and a nod of appreciation to the universe, Virgil sat back, enjoying his brothers banter and did nothing just a bit longer.


	14. Day 44

Gordon? Was unstoppable.

“Check this out, Virge.” He tried to balance on one leg, but found it was too much for his right thigh to handle and so he wobbled, alarmingly. “Argh! Stupid muscles. Obey me. Do my bidding.”

“Give it time,” said Jeff. He was seated at the far end of the room, surrounded by suitcases brought from the hotel, a device open on his lap. He looked like a man at peace with the world, as relaxed as Virgil had ever seen him. Virgil stood up.

“How about I go bring the car around to the front?”

Jeff nodded his thanks. Gordon reached out to stop him.

“Wait. Before you go. Before you leave this palace of tranquillity and happiness for the last time – here.” He handed Virgil a small bag. Inside it was a tiny cube. “It’s the latest music storage beast. A whatchamacallit.”

“A Sixty-sixty Kraftskube! Wow, Gordon. I don’t know what to say.” Virgil was genuinely surprised and touched. “I’ve wanted one of these for ages. The sound is amazing.”

“Go ahead. There’s something on there that says everything I want to say to you. Try it.” 

“How do I - ?”

“Just press there, on the indent.”

At once, the room was filled with the crystal clear sounds of a woman belting out a ballad; one that had plagued every molecule of Virgil’s good taste since he was old enough to express an opinion.

'Did you ever know that you’re my heee-ro? You’re everything I would like to be…’

“Argh! Gordon! You – you asshole!”

Gordon was gone, hysterical, clutching his stomach as he fell back against the seat bench.

'I can fly higher than an eeeagle – '

“No! Shit! How do I turn it off?”

Gordon joined in, between his gurgles.

“For you are the wind beneath the sheets.”

“Turn it off!”

“Here.” Jeff got up and touched it at the base. The room fell silent, save for Gordon’s cackles. “As for you – “ Jeff thwapped the back of Gordon’s head. 

“Ow!” But Gordon was still grinning, still wiping his eyes. “Oh, that’s an earworm for the ages.”

“God!” Virgil turned to grump his way out, but Gordon caught at him.

“Sorry, sorry. Hehehe. No, wait, sorry. But it does work, and you did want one.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Two good points, but they’d have to be to trump that musical abomination. “Thanks.” 

“Here.” Something else, thrust hurriedly into his hand, unwrapped. “Something I made in rehab. Fine motor stuff.”

Curiously, Virgil looked down at what he held. It was a small boomerang, shaped in wood, painted green.

“’Cos you always came back.” Gordon was speaking to the wall, apparently, because he wasn’t looking at his brother. “Every morning. And when I pushed. You came back.”

“Oh.” Something caught in Virgil’s throat. He closed his hand around the small wooden object.

Gordon nodded, and then, briefly, turned his eyes to his brother’s. An ocean in those eyes, and no words to capture it.

As quickly as it came, the moment was gone.

“Oh, and can you smuggle one of these out?” Gordon picked up a cushion from the wall seat. “I really want a souvenir and these are kinda funky. And you know they’ll frisk me. But you’ve got one of those honest faces.”

Virgil looked to his father, but it seemed as though Jeff Tracy was Taking A Day Off and had abandoned his fatherly duties in honour of the fact that his once paralysed son was walking out of hospital. He simply shrugged at his middle child.

Sighing, Virgil picked up the cushion. 

“I’ll see you down there,” he said, and walked out, without a single glance back. The room held too many savage memories for the more recent, happier ones to overcome. He would be very glad to never set foot in it again.

He farewelled Byron, with a rueful apology for the cushion (waved off: “You earned it,” Byron said, hugging him). Then he headed down past the cafeteria, where he once sat with Scott so long ago. Scott was now back in Kansas, home on leave, waiting with Alan and Grandma to welcome their errant brother home.

Out through the automatic doors to the hot sidewalk. He needed to turn left to walk towards the garage, but for some reason he paused, and looked across the street to his old friend, the palm. It looked shabbier than ever, strips of its fronds hanging in dried disarray from its crown.

On a whim, he crossed the road and ducked beneath the demolition tape one last time. Something was building in him, but he wasn’t sure what; something to do with the days of purgatory in the place across the street, with the little brother who began in such a terrible state and was now going to walk – or, if he stayed true to type, skip – out the front doors. Something to do with everything Virgil had thought and felt, every time he had held on when every part of him had wanted release.

He didn’t know what it was, exactly. Until he looked down at the little boomerang, its shape sure, its edges smoothed, its sides so carefully painted in swirls of green; and then looked up, up to the third storey, to where Jeff Tracy stood at the window with his son, Gordon, arm on his shoulder. As he watched, Gordon lifted his hand and waved.

Virgil nodded.

“You’ve got two minutes,” he said to himself. 

Carefully turning his back to the hospital and standing out of sight on the far side of the palm tree, Virgil Tracy lowered his head to the stolen cushion and cried his heart out.

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to thank again all those who have taken the time to read this, and to say that I hope you enjoyed it.  
> And thank again my wonderful beta, Soleill Lumiere.


End file.
